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LITTLE GREY GIRL 


BY 

MARY OPENSHAW 

AUTHOR OF 

“the loser pays,” “the cross of honour,” etc. 



G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS NEW YORK 


0 

■ V 


Copyright, X913. by 
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY 


Little Grey Girl 



\ 


©CI.A34'7072 

ka/ 


CONTENTS 


REMINISCENCES ... 15 

I. THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE - .10 

II. THE HOUSEHOLD OF SILENCE - 21 

III. A HARD PARTING - - - 29 

IV. GREAT EXPECTATIONS - - -36 

V. THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 48 

VI. CAT AND MOUSE - - - - 5 ^ 

VII. THE FRUIT OF DREAMS - - 65 

VHI. AN ENCHANTED LAND - - 75 

IX. DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT - - 86 

X. THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS - - 97 

XI. THE OGRE - - - - I06 

XH. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY - - I16 

XHI. UNWELCOME PRESENTS - - 1 23 

XIV. CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND 

CAPS 135 

XV. GOOD-BYE GORLEY - - - 145 

XVI. INNOCENTS ABROAD - - - 153 

XVH. MONSIEUR VALENTIN - - - 1 64 

XVHI. CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE I 7 5 

XIX. I MOVE WITH THE TIMES * - - 1 84 

XX. THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING 

CROWNS - - - - 194 

XXI. DECLARATION OF WAR - - 205 

xxH. “a Berlin! a Berlin!” - - 216 

XXIII. I FALL INTO THE WARS - - 227 

XXIV. KISS AND BE FRIENDS - - - 237 

XXV. LIFE FROM A BALCONY - - 243 

XXVI. REVOLUTION - - - - 255 


CONTENTS 


IV 


XXVII. 

TROUBLES NEVER COME SINGLY 

- 268 

XXVIII. 

MAKING THE BEST OF IT 

- 

- 275 

XXIX. 

THE WORST 

- 

- 284 

XXX. 

A DANGEROUS ENEMY - 

- 

- 297 

XXXI. 

CHRISTMAS EVE - 

- 

- 307 

XXXII. 

PETITE MAMAN - 

- 

- 315 


Little Grey Girl 

REMINISCENCES 

JANUARY 3IST, I9II, 5 P. M. 

It is while sitting by the fire in the twilight of 
winter evenings before the curtains are drawn and 
the lamps are lighted that the Grey Girl comes to 
visit me. She steals into the room so demurely, 
quiet as a little mouse, and she takes the chair 
opposite my own, but not until she is bidden, and 
we sit together looking at each other in silence for 
a very long while, wondering at the changes which 
the years bring with them, for the Grey Girl has 
come to me out of the mists of forty years, and I 
am sure it is difficult for us both to believe that 
there was a time long ago when she and I were 
never parted. 

But, nevertheless, we understand each other 
perfectly. How demurely she sits beside me, bolt 
upright in her chair, such a quaint girl as you 
never see nowadays, her hands folded in the lap 
of her sober gown, her eyes turned patiently to- 
ward me, waiting for permission to speak, be- 
cause she has been brought up ever so strictly 
and knows that she mustn’t begin a conversation 
with her elders without encouragement; and I 
must seem very old to her, for fifty years is an 
eternity to ten. 

I like to sit and look at her. The bonnet and 


6 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


gown which I once thought so ugly seem somehow 
to suit her, and the snowy collar and cuffs are 
dainty and pleasant to the eye. She is an ex- 
tremely neat girl. 

But I like to talk to her also. She may be a 
little bit shy at first, but then she so soon becomes 
eager and interested, and the little plain face lights 
up, and she chatters — chatters, sometimes gravely, 
sometimes gaily, until we have told the story of 
a lifetime in one short hour. 

“Reminiscing,” she calls it. And we are con- 
stantly interrupting each other, for once we really 
become interested she is not one bit prim and 
proper, and always our sentences seem to begin 
with “Do you remember?” 

She doesn’t remind me of hockey and tennis, of 
fair-plays and pantomimes, and she can’t talk 
about brothers and sisters, because she was a 
lonely only girl, but nevertheless she can be quite 
interesting, this Grey Girl of mine. 

“Do you remember Bursfield?” I asked her. 

She nods her head gravely. “Poor Bursfield, 
where all the days were alike.” 

“You didn’t love Bursfield.” 

“I didn’t know I didn’t like it until I went away. 
What I minded there was never being allowed to 
dress like other girls.” 

I laugh aloud. “And wear crinolines and dress- 
improvers, for example? Why, little Grey Girl, 
do you remember your beautiful lady actually 
wore a dress-improver under her silk gown, and 
her tiny bonnet did not cover the ringlets hanging 
down her back?” 

“I don’t care,” protests the Grey Girl, “she was 


REMINISCENCES 


7 


beautiful, and her dress was beautiful, too, more 
beautiful than the dresses nowadays.” 

“Do you remember Felix Leblond?” 

She shudders. “I don’t like to think of him. 
He was a wicked man. Let’s talk of pleasant 
people. Cousin Naomi, and dear, dear Cousin 
Benjamin.” 

“Speaking of them reminds me of Gorley,” I 
reply thoughtfully. “Gorley in the spring-time 
and the White Cottage. Dear me, Gorley is get- 
ting quite a big place nowadays. I remember ” 

“But the river is just the same,” interposes the 
Grey Girl, “and the old Church and Streating Hill 
and the woods.” 

“Do you remember that Sunday afternoon in 
the woods?” I ask her, “when the beautiful lady 
found you asleep and ” 

“I was not asleep,” insists the Grey Girl with 
dignity. “I had just shut my eyes to think.” 

I laugh softly, and the Grey Girl, half offended, 
is silent for a moment, but presently she stretches 
her hand toward the chimney-piece. “Why, 
there she is in your picture-gallery — the beautiful 
lady, and I believe she is actually wearing the 
identical white gown she wore in the woods that 
afternoon forty years ago.” 

“And there is dear Cousin Benjamin on the 
other side,” I continue, “and father in his queer 
broad-brimmed hat. He looks actually younger 
to-day than he did then.” 

“She made him young,” whispers the Grey Girl. 

“We call him grandpapa now,” I begin, but the 
Grey Girl is clapping her hands, and smiling at a 
picture of a black-eyed, laughing girl. “Doesn’t 


8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


she bring back the old Paris days, Mignonette !” 

“And the funny things we had to eat in the 
siege,** I continue. 

“And the crowds in the boulevards shouting ‘A 
Berlin, A Berlin,* ** exclaims the Grey Girl. “And 
Madame Therese singing the Marseillaise in the 
street. 

‘Allons enfants de la patrie 
Le jour de gloire est arrive. 

Vive la France! A bas les Allemands. A Ber- 
lin, A Berlin!* ** 

“Grey Girl, Grey Girl!** I exclaimed reproach- 
fully, “you mustn’t get too excited. She was al- 
ways merry. Mignonette,** I continue, “even when 
she was hungry.** 

“And so was dear little Corps de Garde,** she 
whispers. “I am glad you keep his picture there 
in the best place, right in the middle of the chim- 
ney-piece.” 

“He deserved it,” I reply shortly. 

“He was the dearest dog,” she whispers. 

“I have had many since then,” I reply, “but 
never another Corps de Garde.” 

“There couldn^t be another Corps de Garde,” 
announces the Grey Girl in tones of finality. 

The firelight is fading now, the Grey Girl slips 
her hand into mine and we sink into silence while 
I close my eyes — to think. I can’t see the pictures, 
father. Cousin Benjamin, Mignonette, Corps de 
Garde and the rest, but the originals themselves I 
can see plainly enough, just as plainly as forty 


REMINISCENCES 


9 


years ago. And the Grey Girl is coming closer. 
Wonder of wonders. / am the Grey Girl ! I don’t 
feel one bit strange but I must wait and see what 
happens. And in the meanwhile I will keep my 
eyes shut — and think. 


CHAPTER I 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE 

January 315/, 1870 

W HAT’S her name?” 

“Silence Strangeways.” 

“Silence ! What a funny name ! 

Silence P* 

I was sitting in an alcove in the corner of the big 
schoolroom, and with my eyes tightly shut and my 
hand over the open page I was learning my ap- 
pointed task by heart. It was a page I remem- 
bered out of “The Child’s Guide to Knowledge,” 
and in two successive questions I had jumped from 
steam-engines to tea. My lips moved inaudibly as 
I muttered like a parrot a long, long answer to the 
question as to where and how Great Britain ob- 
tained its supply of the cup that cheers. But I for- 
got all about the “Child’s Guide” upon hearing the 
new girl’s opinion of my name, and I am sure I 
blushed scarlet with shame, because in my heart I 
did so fully agree with her, that “Silence” was a 
very peculiar name indeed. 

“Silence,” continued the new boarder, who • 
seemed unable to leave my unfortunate name 
alone. “I think it must be dreadful to be called 
Silence. It is a horrid name. My name is Vic- 
toria Emmeline Louise.” 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE ii 


*T don’t think very much of that name either,” 
replied Harriet Field stolidly, “it is much too 
long, and cheeky too. Why should you be called 
after Queen Victoria?” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” exclaimed Victoria Emme- 
line Louise hotly. 

Harriet Field considered. “I shouldn’t think,” 
said she after a pause, “that Queen Victoria would 
feel very pleased to think of a girl of eleven, who 
is only in the fourth class, being called after her.” 

“Oh, well,” exclaimed the new girl hastily, “I’m 
never called Victoria, only Louise, and Louie at 
home for short. But say what you like. Silence is 
a much funnier name than mine, and she looks 
funny too, dressed in those outlandish clothes.” 

“That’s because she is a Quaker,” replied a 
fresh voice eagerly. 

I ought by rights to have left my corner and 
come out and joined the little group of girls gath- 
ered round the schoolroom fire, but intense shy- 
ness kept me in my place and I huddled back into 
my chair, hot and cold by turns, and a prey to the 
utmost discomfort. 

“A Quaker! Is she a Quaker?” replied Vic- 
toria Emmeline Louise with considerable excite- 
ment. “I’ve heard of them, of course, but I’ve 
never seen one before. I suppose that is what 
makes her look so different from other people.” 

“She is different. All Quakers are different,” 
announced a girl, Laura Snowden, who had not 
spoken before. “Silence has to say, ‘thee’ and 
‘thou,’ instead of ‘you.’ It does sound so funny.” 

“I’ve been to her house to tea,” chimed in an- 
other, “and she doesn’t say grace like other peo- 


12 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


pie. She has to sit with her eyes shut for quite 
a long time — at least it seemed a long time to me. 

I didn’t know when to look up.” 

“You should have said your own grace to your- 
self and then looked up,” suggested the head girl, 
Harriet Field, “that is what my mamma told me 
to do.” 

“Silence doesn’t say ‘mamma* and ‘papa,’ ” 
pursued Laura Snowden, “she has to say mother 
and father.” 

I writhed in anguish in my corner. 

**How horridr exclaimed Victoria Emmeline 
Louise. “I thought only common people said 
mother and father.” 

“And the servants don’t call her ‘miss,’ ” con- 
tinued Laura breathlessly, “they just say Silence 
Strangeways. ‘Art thee ready. Silence Strange- 
ways?’ ” 

There was a general laugh, and scalding tears 
began to chase each other down my cheeks. 

“But Silence’s papa and mamma are not com- 
mon people,” remarked Harriet Field, who was 
a fat solemn girl, good-natured and with a rigor- 
ous sense of justice. “My papa says that there 
isn’t a man more highly respected in Bursfield than 
Sylvester Strangeways.” 

“You mustn’t ever call him ‘mister,’ ” inter- 
posed Laura maliciously, “and he never takes off 
his hat when he goes into a room, or even if he 
meets a lady.” 

*^How horrid!” exclaimed Victoria Emmeline 
Louise for the second time. “He can’t be a gen- 
tleman.” 

“But he is a gentleman,” replied Harriet Field 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE 13 


firmly, and I breathed again. “You had better 
not let anyone in Bursfield hear you saying that 
Sylvester Strangeways is no gentleman.” 

“My mamma says he is the handsomest man in 
Bursfield,” remarked another girl dreamily. “I 
heard her say that he looked as though he had 
had a history.” 

“A history! What sort of a history? How 
interesting!” exclaimed quite a chorus of voices. 

“I don’t see how he can have had a history, 
living in Bursfield,” retorted the practical Har- 
riet. “How can anybody have a history who just 
goes to business every day and to meeting on 
Sunday?” 

“Yes, but before he lived in Bursfifeld, before he 
was married,” suggested Gertrude Poole, “when 
he lived in France — in Paris.” 

“I should think anyone might have a history 
who lived in Paris,” exclaimed Laura Snowden 
awe-stricken, and I swelled with pride. 

“Yes, indeed; such a horrid wicked place,” 
agreed Victoria Emmeline Louise. “That’s the 
town where they eat frogs, isn’t it? And look 
how they killed all those poor people in that 
dreadful revolution.” 

“Of course, Sylvester Strangeways couldn’t 
have been in the revolution,” observed Gertrude, 
“he’s much too young for that. I must ask 
mamma what sort of a history he can have had in 
Paris, and anyhow he is very good-looking.” 

“And so is his wife,” commented another, “isn’t 
it funny that poor little Silence should be so 
plain.” 

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” answered Laura 


14 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Snowden. “Just think if she were pretty what a 
pity it would be to see her going about dressed in 
those awful clothes. As it is, it doesn’t matter 
much.” 

Human nature could bear it no longer. I 
rushed from my corner, my blood boiling, tears 
pouring down my flaming cheeks. “You are the 
nastiest girls I ever heard of. Oh! you are cruel 
and ill-natured.” 

I am sure the girls were all very much taken- 
aback, and for a moment there was a dismayed 
silence. Then Victoria Emmeline Louise mut- 
tered, “Spitfire,” and I distinctly heard Laura 
Snowden whisper, “Paul Pry.” 

“If — if our servants only call me S-Silence,” I 
continued, sobbing loudly, “at any rate, they don’t 
box my ears, like I saw thy maid, Ellen, box thine, 
Laura, only last week; and I c-can’t help being 
different to other people.” 

“You are a little sneak to listen to people talk- 
ing,” began Laura angrily, nettled by my allusion 
to the maid’s undignified treatment of her. “You 
deserve every ” 

“You be quiet, Laura,” interposed Harriet, 
“she shan’t be teased, poor little thing. Look 
here. Silence,” she continued, “you really 
shouldn’t listen in corners, but now the mischief’s 
done I don’t see that we said so very much. We 
told Louise that you were a Quaker, and explained 
to her what Quakers are like, that was all. And 
you know you are a Quaker, Silence.” 

“Pm not a Quaker,” I protested sullenly. “Pm 
a Friend. That’s our proper name — ‘The Society 
of Friends.’ ” 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE 15 


“Well, but everybody calls you Quakers, and 
what everybody says must be true,” demurred 
Harriet, looking a little puzzled. 

There seemed no answer to be made to such a 
common-sense statement, so, abandoning argu- 
ment, I buried my face in my hands and sobbed 
more violently than before. 

“You go away, all of you, and leave her to me,” 
commanded the good-natured Harriet. “Poor 
little thing, it is a shame !” 

Harriet, being the head-pupil, and at least two 
years older than any other girl present, was 
obeyed at once ; and left to ourselves I raised my 
swollen tear-stained face and looked at her with 
hopeless appeal. 

“Oh, Harriet,” said I, “it wouldn’t matter so 
much if what they said wasn’t true ; but it is true, 
every word of it.” 

“You’re different, of course, to the rest of us,” 
admitted Harriet. “Your clothes especially. But 
then you have some things which the others 
haven’t. Nobody has a gold watch except you, 
Silence.” 

“But a gold watch doesn’t show unless one 
pulls it out,” I protested, “and one’s clothes show 
every minute of the day.” 

“Still, a gold watch is very nice,” replied Har- 
riet. “I know I should like to have one.” 

I was beginning to feel slightly consoled, when 
the memory of Laura’s last speech overcame me 
and I wept afresh. “It’s so dreadful to be ugly.” 

“Plain, not ugly,” amended Harriet, “that was 
what Laura said — and she had no business to say 
that. But she thinks, because she has yellow hair 


i6 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


and pink and white cheeks, that she can say any- 
thing.” 

“But am I really so very plain, Harriet?” 

Harriet surveyed me critically. “Well, of 
course,” she said after a pause, “of course, any 
girl looks a little bit odd with hair cropped close 
like a boy. When your mamma — I mean mother 
— lets your hair grow I shouldn’t wonder if you 
were quite nice looking.” 

“I shall have to wear a cap, then,” I retorted 
gloomily. 

“I shouldn’t take any notice of what Laura 
says,” continued Harriet, trying to change a sub- 
ject which apparently admitted no single ray of 
hope, “she’s jealous because you speak French so 
much better than she does. Why, Silence, you 
speak it better than any of us.” 

“I can’t help that,” I replied, “my father al- 
ways talks French with me. He lived in France, 
you know. I wonder if he really did have a his- 
tory there.” 

“You won’t tell him we were talking about 
him,” urged Harriet, dismayed. “I daresay it 
was all nonsense.” 

“I won’t if thee don’t wish it, Harriet,” I re- 
plied affectionately. “Thee’s kind, and I like thee 
better than all the rest of the girls put together. 
I wonder if I shall ever have a history or adven- 
tures,” I continued dreamily. 

“Adventures — in Bursfield?” queried the scep- 
tical Harriet. 

“People do have adventures in Bursfield,” I 
protested. “Think of that poor boy who got run 
over by the steam tram last month.” 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE 


17 


“I don’t call that an adventure,” retorted our 
practical head-girl. “I call that a horrid accident. 
Do be sensible, Silence.” 

“Perhaps,” I suggested, waiving the question, 
“perhaps I shan’t always be in Bursfield.” 

“You mean that you may be sent away t6 a 
Qua 1 mean Friends’ School?” 

“Thee thinks I shall never go away unless I go 
to school?” 

“I shouldn’t think so,” replied Harriet de- 
cisively. “You never do go away, do you. Silence? 
Why, you’ve never been away from home for a 
single night all your life.” 

“Thee’s not been very far, either,” I retorted a 
little resentfully. “Thee’s never seen the sea yet, 
and neither has Laura.” 

“But I am going to the seaside this summer,” 
replied Harriet hastily. 

“Oh, well!” said I, but not very hopefully, 
“perhaps I shall some day go away from Bursfield 
to some nice place and have interesting things hap- 
pen to me.” 

“You are a queer little thing,” said Harriet 
laughing, but not at all unkindly. 

I felt very dejected as I walked home from 
school that gloomy January afternoon. It was my 
tenth birthday, I remember — Monday, January 
the thirty-first, eighteen hundred and seventy. 
Everything seemed so flat, so uninteresting, and 
Harriet Field’s manner showed so plainly that 
she thought life would always go on in the same 
dull groove for me. Harriet was a big girl, al- 
most grown-up I argued to myself, and grown-ups 
were always right. The streets of Bursfield 


i8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


looked drearier than ever as I plodded through 
them alone, carrying my little satchel of books for 
home preparation. I nearly always walked home 
alone, because none of my shool-fellows cared to 
be seen with a girl whose dress caused rude boys 
to shout out after her, “Quaker! Quaker!” and 
strangers to stare at her with wondering interest. 

There were a mere handful of Friends in Burs- 
field, and of the dozen or so families which 
formed our Society only two, beside my own, had 
girls, and these went to school a long way off. I 
was the only Quaker child in my own school, or 
indeed during the greater part of the year in the 
town of Bursfield, where my father was a flourish- 
ing glove manufacturer. 

I am sure I had a great deal to be thankful for; 
a comfortable home, kind parents, good food and 
warm clothing. But I took thought of none of 
these mercies as I wended my way through the 
muddy streets, consumed with bitterness at the 
thought of my grey shapeless garments, the thick 
serviceable cloak, the ample bonnet, whose sole 
merit, in my opinion at least, consisted in conceal- 
ing my cropped mouse-colored head, and the 
plain underwear, unadorned by a stitch of lace or 
embroidery. 

It didn’t comfort me one bit to remember that, 
while these same white plain petticoats were 
changed daily, Laura Snowden and others of the 
girls frequently came to school wearing under- 
garments the smart trimmings of which were not 
a little soiled and bedraggled. They were at least 
like each other, and I was entirely unlike them — 
there lay the sting. 

A week ago I had had the meager consolation 


THE THRESHOLD OF CHANGE 


19 


of companions in misfortune, for a doctor, re- 
cently settled in Bursfield, had sent his three girls 
to my school, while their brother attended the 
grammar-school hard by. 

Now these children had a nurse who hailed 
from Lancashire, where the working people wear 
wooden shoes called clogs, and she insisted that 
her charges should come to school in clogs, which 
are supposed to protect the feet from mud and 
wet better than shoe-leather. I shall never for- 
get the sight these children presented as they 
“cliketty-clake tried” their way to school upon the 
first morning of the term. 

The girls were crying bitterly, and their 
brother, with clenched fists and a very red face, 
was breathing out threatenings and slaughter to 
a crowd of vulgar boys who followed the pitiful 
little procession, jeering and mocking at the un- 
usual footgear. I must say that in the scrimmage 
which finally ensued the wooden shoes did yeoman 
service, but the girls were not to be consoled, and 
they clung to me in thanksgiving at finding any- 
one more peculiarly dressed than themselves. For 
three days we were bosom friends; walked to- 
gether, talked together, sat together; and then, 
alas, came Sunday, when I met them on their way 
to church, resplendent in dainty boots, striped 
stockings, smart short jackets and hats adorned 
with fur. My heart sank within me as I saw them 
look wonderingly at my bonnet and cloak, which, 
though different, looked precisely the same as the 
clothes I wore every week day, and I suppose 
their father and mother interfered, because upon 
the Monday the clogs had been replaced by strong 
leather shoes and our bond of peculiarity was 


20 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


broken for ever. It was very, very hard, thought 
I, that I should be the only child to be peculiar. 
Other girls’ parents wouldn’t allow their children 
to go about looking entirely different to anybody 
else in the town. Why then should mine? 

In this discontented miserable frame of mind I 
plodded home, finding something fresh to grumble 
at with every step I took. Most of the girls went 
away sometimes, either to visit relations and 
friends, or merely for change of air to the seaside 
and country. My mother did not believe in 
change of air, and consequently I had reached ten 
years without ever spending a single day or night 
away from home. Harriet Field’s father, I knew, 
was much poorer than my own, but even Harriet 
said she was going to the sea next summer. 

I had an occasional friend to tea, but other 
girls went to birthday and Christmas parties, 
where they enjoyed music and dancing, presents 
and crackers. 

How I longed for a party, quite forgetting the 
gold watch which had been my birthday present 
last year, and the beautiful writing-desk which 
had been given me that morning. I was so sorry 
for myself that my eyes began to swim afresh, and 
I must have presented a woebegone spectacle as I 
crossed the garden — which looked much the same 
in January as in June, flowers resolutely refusing 
to grow in Bursfield because of the smoke and 
chemical fumes which poured from various fac- 
tory chimneys — and rang the door-bell of the 
square red-brick house I called home, little dream- 
ing that the changes for which I pined were wait- 
ing for me upon the very threshold. 


CHAPTER II 


THE HOUSEHOLD OF SILENCE 

‘T am sorry to tell thee, Silence, that thy 
mother is sick.’’ 

So said Sarah, our eldest housemaid, who met 
me on the doorstep. “Come thee in quietly, child; 
thee must not make any noise to-night.” 

I never did make a noise at home, but awe- 
stricken at Sarah’s melancholy tidings I lowered 
my voice to a whisper, and tip-toed my way across 
the dark passage, the lights of which were low- 
ered for economy’s sake. 

“What is the matter with mother, Sarah? She 
was pretty well at dinner-time.” 

“She has had a heavy cold for some days,” re- 
plied Sarah, “and she was so much worse this 
afternoon that thy father sent for John Thorpe, 
who hath ordered poultices.” 

“Will she have to stay in bed, Sarah?” 

“Why, certainly, child, so long as she has the 
poultices.” 

Here was a turning upside-down of life. I sup- 
pose we had been peculiarly fortunate as a family, 
because I never remembered any one of us need- 
ing the services of John Thorpe, the Bursfield 
doctor, before. Others of my school-fellows had 
been ill, and so had their relations. Several of 
these latter had died: and then the girls stayed 


22 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


away from school, reappearing in the course of 
a few days, sometimes sad and subdued in man- 
ner, sometimes just a little self-important, but in- 
variably wearing dresses of the deepest black 
plentifully trimmed with crape. Never had I 
stayed away from school for sickness or any other 
cause, and it was with a feeling of utter strange- 
ness and bewilderment that I clutched at Sarah’s 
ample apron, exclaiming in dismay: “Oh! how 
shall we get on without mother!” 

“Thee must see to it that thee is a very good 
child,” admonished Sarah, who rarely lost an 
opportunity of improving the occasion: then, re- 
lenting, she added, “Thee must take heart. Silence. 
With care we shall doubtless soon have her about 
with us again.” 

We had reached the parlor, and Sarah, turn- 
ing the gas on full, gave one look at me, and then 
came forward — hastily for her. 

“Why, Silence, what is the matter? Hast thou 
got a cold in thy head?” 

“I have been crying, Sarah,” I admitted shame- 
facedly. “The girls at the school laughed at me 
for being different to them. And I was very 
angry, and cried, and ” 

“And then thee came home to find that there 
was real cause for trouble,” concluded Sarah. 
“That is ever the way. Thee’s a foolish child. 
Silence, to take heed of what these children say, 
who cannot be well-mannered to make sport of 
another, which is a thing very ill pleasing in the 
sight of God. How did He punish those wicked 
children who mocked at the prophet Elijah’s 
scanty head-covering? I have heard thee repeat 


THE HOUSEHOLD OF SILENCE 


23 


Dr. Watt’s verses on the subject. Thee hast 
surely not forgotten them, Silence?” 

I remembered the verses to which she alluded 
perfectly well, and recited them glibly. 

“‘God quickly stopped their wicked words. 

And sent two raging bears 

Which tore them limb from limb to death. 

With blood and groans and tears.’” 

“Sarah,” I exclaimed in conclusion, “thee dost 
not think that God would let such a dreadful thing 
happen nowadays. It would be a terrible thing to 
think of Laura Snowden being torn in pieces ; and 
Sarah — there is a wild beast show in the town at 
present.” 

Sarah actually smiled. “Thee is not the prophet 
Elijah, Silence,” she replied — then added kindly: 
“Now come with me to the kitchen and I will 
wash that face of thine, and we will see what Re- 
becca hath baked for thy birthday.” 

Our cook had made a large plum cake, the 
sight of which cheered me not a little, and my face 
scrubbed, and my dress concealed beneath a calico 
pinafore, I was sent upstairs, with instructions 
not to worry my mother by over much talking — 
just as though I were in the habit of speaking 
without being first spoken to. I found my mother 
lying in bed, her hair smoothed beneath her night- 
cap, and looking, in my opinion, much better than 
usual, because a bright spot of crimson burnt in 
each of her generally pale cheeks. She coughed 
frequently, but it was quite a little cough, not 
half so bad to my thinking as the cough from 
which Harriet Field had suffered at the end of the 


24 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


last term, when she had made the school-room 
echo with the noise of her attacks. 

“It is the night for thy arithmetic, Silence,” 
gasped my mother, “get thy books and work 
quietly here by the fire. I cannot, I fear, help 
thee to-night.” 

“But thee is not very bad, mother,” I urged 
hopefully. “Thee has a nice color and thy cough 
is not near so loud as Harriet Field’s.” 

“I shall be better to-morrow, please God,” she 
replied quietly. “Now get to thy books without 
delay.” 

I did not dare speak again but set to work 
obediently, though I did not get on as fast as 
usual because, my mind being set at rest on ac- 
count of my mother, I allowed my thoughts to 
wander a good deal. It was strange, in the first 
place, to be doing my long-division sums seated 
in front of a bedroom fire, because forty years 
ago people lived harder than they do now, and I 
had never to my knowledge seen a fire burning in 
any bedroom of our house before, not even in the 
coldest weather. I preferred doing my lessons 
there than in the parlor downstairs, for it was 
such a complete change for me, and I wondered 
how long it was likely to last; but as the figures 
of my arithmetic began to get sadly mixed up on 
the page of the exercise book before me, I hoped 
that my mother would soon be well enough to help 
me with my home-lessons, as she had never failed 
to do from five o’clock to six thirty (our tea- 
time) every evening since I had begun to do les- 
sons at all. I wondered, too, at seeing my mother, 
usually so quiet and silent, tossing about in bed, 


THE HOUSEHOLD OF SILENCE 25 


because nothing annoyed her more than to see me, 
or anyone else, restless and fidgety; and, to cure 
me of any tendency to this habit, she insisted upon 
my sitting in perfect stillness every day for not 
less than a quarter of an hour, and frequently 
very much longer. Looking back upon those days 
I often think that, thanks to my mother, I must 
have been a model scholar, so perfectly prepared 
were my home-lessons under her supervision, so 
quietly had I been trained to sit at school or meet- 
ing, and so wonderful was my needlework in com- 
parison with that of my companions, for I was 
not allowed to idle away my holidays : and I must 
have got through miles of plain-sewing, stitching 
away, sometimes for myself, often for the house, 
hemming sheets and pillow slips; oftenest of all 
working for the poor, of whom there were a 
goodly number in Bursfield. 

You must remember that forty years ago there 
was no bicycling, and very little amateur photo- 
graphy; no tennis or hockey (and I should not 
have been allowed to play if there had been) ; very 
little, in fact, for girls to do except work, draw, 
read and take walks, when the weather was not 
too wet, or too cold or hot to be out of doors. 
Dancing and music there were, of course, but, be- 
ing a Friend, I was debarred from either, dearly 
as I should have loved to learn them. 

I had not got through the half of my home- 
work when my father came into the room, looking 
sadly perplexed and troubled. 

“Thee is feeling easier, Rachel?” 

“I shall be better to-morrow, please God, Syl- 
vester,” repeated my mother for the second time. 


26 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


‘‘Here is thy medicine,” continued my father, 
diving down into the depths of his pocket, and 
producing a bottle neatly tied and sealed. “Thee 
must have a dose at once; and John Thorpe tells 
me he will be here to see thee in good time to- 
morrow. Is there aught that I could do for thee, 
Rachel?” 

“Thee might give a glance to the child’s arith- 
metic,” replied my mother. “She is not used to 
working alone.” 

My father poured out a dose of the medicine, 
administered it to my mother, who swallowed it 
without murmuring (I longed to ask if it were 
nasty), and crossing the room took my chair and 
bent over my long-division, while I stood by 
his side, surveying him with newly awakened 
curiosity. 

I had always taken my parents very much for 
granted, and though I knew that they talked, 
dressed and behaved differently to other people, I 
had given very little thought to their appearance. 
But from the afternoon’s conversation I had 
learnt that my father was considered handsome, 
the handsomest man in Bursfield, and that the 
more romantic thought that he must have had a 
history. I wondered where lay the evidences of 
history as I looked him slowly over from head to 
foot, and there was a good deal for me to look at, 
for my father was an extremely tall man, broad- 
shouldered and well-proportioned; but my eyes 
soon left his figure, which could hardly be sup/- 
posed to entirely constitute his good-looks, since 
our butcher was to the full as big and well devel- 
oped as he was, and I had never heard any, save 


THE HOUSEHOLD OF SILENCE 27 


unfavorable, comments passed upon his personal 
appearance. 

The face must surely be the criterion, thought 
I : and certainly my father’s clean-shaven features 
bore no resemblance to Pring’s inflamed and 
swollen countenance, for they were pale and clear- 
cut, with the nose which is called Roman, and thin 
flexible lips. His hair was worn cropped, Quaker- 
fashion, close to his head, as is the fashion nowa- 
days, but it looked somewhat odd in eighteen- 
seventy. His was certainly a handsome face, but 
I looked in vain for any sign of a story, and I 
wondered what Gertrude Poole’s mother could 
have meant, and whereabouts were people accus- 
tomed to search for history? 

And then suddenly my father looked up, and 
though he smiled with his mouth there was a sad- 
ness in his dark deep-set eyes which made me un- 
derstand a little — a very little — of what Gertrude 
Poole’s mother had meant. Most of the people I 
had read about in French history had suffered. 
My father had surely suffered too. Like them 
he had lived in Paris, like them he had lived 
through troubled times, and his history was writ- 
ten in his eyes. 

My thoughts had been traveling upon a 
voyage of discovery, but the clang of the 
tea-bell and my father’s voice recalled them. 
“Thy brains must have been wool-gathering. 
Silence, child,” said he, pointing to the page 
of the book before him. “There are mis- 
takes in both these last sums of thine ; very grave 
mistakes.” 

“I will work them again before bed-time, 


28 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


father,” I answered meekly, and then my mother 
summoned me to her bedside. 

“Thee must go down and give father his tea, 
like a good little woman,” said she; and swelling 
with pride and satisfaction I hurried downstairs 
to the parlor, for never before in my short life 
had I enjoyed the honor and glory of pouring out 
tea by myself. 


CHAPTER III 


A HARD PARTING 

At meals I had been taught to follow the ex- 
ample of the children in a favorite book of mine, 
“The Fairchild Family,” viz., to eat what was set 
before me, and seldom to speak unless I was 
spoken to. 

My father and I accordingly sat down to table 
together, bent our heads over our plates as was 
our custom, and then I prepared to make the tea 
and to eat my poached egg and bread-and-butter 
as quietly as usual; and it was quite a surprise 
when my father broke the silence by a remark as 
to my mother’s illness. 

“I fear thy mother is very unwell. Silence.” 

“Oh! father, I don’t think so; look what a 
pretty color she has in her cheeks.” 

“That is the flush of fever, child — and hark to 
that hacking cough.” 

“But Sarah says that the poultices will make 
that better, father, and we shall soon have her 
about again.” 

“Please God, Sarah may be right,” he an- 
swered, looking intensely relieved. 

We drank our tea quietly for a few moments, 
and then I broke the silence timidly: “Father, 
canst thee tell me if people have histories nowa- 
days?” 


30 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Why, certainly, child. Hast thee not the his- 
tory of the Queen of England in that new book 
I brought thee not a week ago?” 

“I didn’t mean kings and queens, father. I was 
thinking of people like ourselves. Could — could 
thee have a history, father?” 

“Why, Silence, child, what a question!” 

“We have been reading French history,” I con- 
tinued bravely, for I was not nearly as much in 
awe of my father as of my mother. “We were 
learning about poor Louis and Marie Antoinette 
who lost their heads in the dreadful Revolution. 
I heard one of the girls say that Paris was a ter- 
rible place, and one in which anyone living might 
have a history. I knew thee had lived in Paris, 
father, and I wondered had thee had a history.” 

My father laid down his knife and fork, and 
his face turned very pale. “They did not try to 
cut off my head, child,” he replied, half jesting — 
but I noticed that he pushed his plate away and 
ate nothing all the rest of the meal, which I fin- 
ished in a silence which I did not dare to break 
again. 

Never before had I dared to’ touch upon the 
mystery of my father’s life in the capital of 
France, and never had I heard him allude to the 
two years he had spent there after leaving Oxford, 
for he had not been brought up as a Friend, but 
had been educated just like ordinary young men — 
first at Shrewsbury, then at the University. He 
had been the only son of the junior partner in 
the firm of Sheridan and Strangeways, glove mer- 
chants in the manufacturing town of Bursfield. 
All the skins for our factories came from France, 


A HARD PARTING 


31 


and when my father left Oxford he was sent to 
Paris to learn the business of choosing the skins : 
and there he stayed for a couple of years, return- 
ing quite suddenly, and within six months joining 
the Society of Friends, and delighting his father 
by marrying my mother, the senior partner, 
Friend Joseph Sheridan’s, only daughter, who was 
some four or five years older than himself. 

And ever since the wedding-day my father had 
leant upon my mother, and depended upon her for 
everything. If I asked his leave to do anything, 
the answer was always the same : “Thee must go 
to thy mother. Silence.” If the servants wanted 
an order they would be bidden to “ask the mis- 
tress.” She was the guiding spirit of our house- 
hold, and when with her (and out of school-hours 
I was with her all the time) I should as soon have 
thought of leaving the parlor without permission, 
or choosing my own food at table, or beginning to 
talk without encouragement, as I should think of 
jumping out of an express train in motion. 

Some might consider that it was quite a holiday 
for me to have my mother in bed, and to be able 
to do more or less as I pleased; but as a matter of 
fact I felt wretched and lost when one day passed, 
and a second and third, and still my mother lay 
in bed with poultices upon her chest, and the doc- 
tor, John Thorpe, coming twice every day, and on 
the third day thrice. Upon the evening of that 
day my father had a long talk with the doctor, and 
when he came back into the parlor he looked 
even more troubled than before. “Silence,” said 
he, “John Thorpe thinks it would be wise for thy 
mother to see another doctor. He hath sent for 


32 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


a clever man from London, Spencer Conyngham, 
by name.” 

“He will be sure to cure mother, won’t he, 
father?” I suggested wistfully. 

“Please God, he may,” replied my father very 
sadly, and not at all hopefully. 

The new doctor was to come at noon the next 
day, and I went to school the next morning to be 
made much of both by my teachers and school- 
fellows, who were all I am sure very sorry for me. 
They looked much impressed when I told them 
that a new doctor, Spencer Conyngham, was com- 
ing to see my mother. 

“Sir Spencer Conyngham,” exclaimed Harriet 
Field. “Why, he is the most famous of all the 
London doctors !” 

I gasped in surprise. I had never, to my knowl- 
edge, seen a Sir-anybody before; and the knowl- 
edge that one was actually coming to our house 
that very morning was awe-inspiring. 

“It costs a hundred guineas to have Sir Spencer 
Conyngham,” announced Harriet impressively. 

“Then if he costs such a lot of money he can’t 
help curing mother,” I suggested hopefully. 

“He’s sure to cure her,” replied Gertrude 
Poole with conviction. “I wonder what he will 
be like. Spencer Conyngham is a beautiful name. 
You must tell us all about him when you come 
back to school this afternoon. Silence.” 

How I should have enjoyed all this importance 
a week ago, but now I felt I did not care for any- 
thing if only my mother would get well. 

I watched anxiously for the new doctor, expect- 
ing to find in a Sir Spencer Conyngham a very 


A HARD PARTING 


33 


prince among men. Judge of my disappointment 
when a stout, grey-bearded, snub-nosed little man 
jumped out of Doctor Thorpe’s brougham and 
walked briskly and cheerfully up the steps into 
the house. One hundred guineas seemed an im- 
mense amount to pay to anybody who looked like 
he did, and I wondered, anxiously, whether such 
a small man could do my mother any real good. 

How long the time seemed until he came out 
again, not cheerfully this time, but gravely and 
slowly, accompanied by my father and Doctor 
Thorpe. He stood talking at the bottom of the 
steps for a moment; and then he shook my 
father’s hand, as if he were sorry for him, and, 
stepping into the brougham, followed by Doctor 
Thorpe, drove away, while my father came up 
the steps, his head bent, and looking so sad and 
weary that my heart ached for him. I did not 
go to school that afternoon. Instead I was bid- 
den to take my sewing and sit quietly by the fire 
in my mother’s room. She had asked for me, and 
always seemed less restless when I was with 
her. So I sat, quietly sewing through the 
hours of that February afternoon; and my father 
stayed inactive beside the bed on which my 
mother lay, very still and, to all appearance, 
sleeping. 

The room grew dark and I laid my work aside, 
for I could not see to make even stitches by the 
flickering light of the fire. Suddenly my mother’s 
voice came clear and distinct. “Sylvester.” 

My father started up and bent over her. “I 
am here, Rachel.” She murmured something 
which I did not catch, and he answered in a low, 


34 LITTLE GREY GIRL 

hoarse voice : ‘Thee hast been a good wife to me, 
Rachel.” 

And she replied. “A good wife, but not the 
right wife for thee, Sylvester; I am glad however 
to think that thee has still thy life before thee.” 

There was a moment’s pause, while I reflected 
in amazement on my mother’s words. That my 
father, an old man in my opinion (he was thirty- 
four years of age at the time), that he should 
have his life before him was strange and incom- 
prehensible. Why, according to Gertrude Poole, 
he had already had a history, and I wondered if 
my mother knew anything about it. Speaking as 
a grown-up, and not as a child, I think that she 
must have known, and that the knowledge must 
have been a heavy burden for her to bear, loving 
my father, as I know she did, with a great whole- 
hearted love: and I think that this last sentence 
of hers must have told him, for the first time, that 
she knew it, for he stretched out his arms like a 
man in agony, and, the tears streaming down his 
cheeks, he exclaimed brokenly : “Rachel, Rachel, 
thee knows that I would give all I have to save 
thee.” 

My mother stretched out her feeble hand and 
took his own tenderly, but all she said was : “Thee 
must control thyself, Sylvester — ” and then she 
asked for me. “It must surely be the child’s tea- 
time,” she whispered. At a signal from my father 
I crept to the bedside, too frightened and awe- 
stricken to cry. 

“It — it wants yet an hour to tea-time, mother,” 
I stammered. 

“But thee has sat at thy sewing long enough. 


A HARD PARTING 


35 


Thee has been a good child, Silence. See to it 
that thee is always loving and obedient and a com- 
fort to thy father. And now, child, kiss me, and 
go and ask Rebecca to give thee a slice of thy 
birthday cake.” 

My father lifted me up and I kissed my mother 
and crept out of the room; not to the kitchen, 
however, but to the deserted parlor, where I 
crouched by the fire, sobbing my heart out — until 
an hour later our maid, Sarah, came to find me, 
and, the tears running down her own cheeks, took 
me In her arms and told me that my mother was 
dead. 


CHAPTER IV 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 

There was nothing at all to lessen the dreadful 
sense of desolation which followed the Friday of 
my mother’s death. There was so little prepara- 
tion needed for the simple Quaker funeral, no 
flowers, no elaborate procession; above all, no 
mourning. I stood by my mother’s grave, dressed 
in my ordinary grey bonnet and cloak, and I re- 
turned to school next morning wearing the same, 
and feeling, rather than hearing, Victoria Emme- 
line Louise’s exclamation of surprise: “Why, she 
hasn’t got any black for her mother! How 
horridr* 

The other girls understood the true state of the 
case and were kindness itself. Laura Snowden 
shared a packet of chocolate with me, (rather a 
wonderful thing for her to do, because she usually 
liked to keep her good things to herself). Ger- 
trude Poole helped me with my sums, Harriet 
Field walked home with me and, meeting my 
father at the garden gate, was invited by him 
to come in to tea, and then followed the first 
happy hour I had known since that miserable 
night when I had come home to find my. mother 
taken ill. My father had brought me a wonder- 
ful new game, which interested Harriet and my- 
self so much that we were quite unwilling to tear 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


37 


ourselves away from it to come to the tea-table, 
for which Rebecca had provided an extra dish of 
cakes; and, best of all, when seated there, our 
guest, though five years my senior, was evidently 
much impressed by the sight of me acting hostess, 
and doing the honors at the head of the table. 
I had never known what it was to be envied be- 
fore, but I knew it now, when a few days later a 
group of girls surrounded me, and asked me if it 
were really true that I was to be mistress of my 
father’s house. 

I could not actually say “yes” to that, and had 
to acknowledge that Sarah and Rebecca did the 
housekeeping, superintended my needlework and 
chose the food for me to eat and drink. 

“But you sit at the head of the table and pour 
out!” exclaimed Laura Snowden. 

I could vouch, to the truth of that with a glad 
heart. 

“Even if you have visitors?” persisted Laura. 

“When John Thorpe and Friend Robert Max- 
well came to dinner I served the soup and pud- 
ding,” I replied proudly. 

“Oh, Silence, I wish I were you 1” sighed Bea- 
trice Stevens, a girl motherless like myself, but 
whose home was ruled with an iron hand by a 
maiden aunt of exceptional severity. 

“I expect you have fine times really,” exclaimed 
Laura Snowden. “I know I do when my mamma 
and papa are out. I do just as I like, and our 
servants give me lots of cakes and jam not to tell 
about what I see in the kitchen.” 

“But there is nothing to tell about in our 
kitchen,” I replied, somewhat puzzled; “at least 


38 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


if there is Sarah tells father herself. The other 
day a rag-and-bone man came to the back door 
and wouldn’t go away. He was so rude, and we 
all told father about it when he came home.” 

“I wasn’t speaking about rag-and-bone men,” 
retorted Laura mysteriously. 

I questioned Harriet as to Laura’s meaning 
when we were alone, and she told me to take no 
notice; “for,” she explained, “though Laura’s 
papa and mamma have a great deal of money and 
a fine house and all that sort of thing, they are 
not quite nice people, and I expect they have very 
common servants. I heard Mrs. Thorpe tell my 
mamma that your papa ought to be thankful every 
day of his life for your Sarah and Rebecca.” 

I am sure Harriet spoke the truth, for if ever 
two women tried to fulfil a mother’s part to me 
our maids were those two. Sarah might be strict 
over the sewing, but she was always ready to take 
an interest in my games, and many a wet half- 
holiday have I spent in the kitchen reading aloud 
out of a favorite book while Rebecca baked a 
little cake for my tea, and Sarah sat at her knit- 
ting, ever on the alert to nod approval of any 
moral which the story might contain. 

So the uneventful weeks passed by, and we had 
reached the threshold of April, when one morning 
my father exploded a bomb in the midst of our 
quiet household by the announcement that we were 
to have a visitor, no Friend Robert Maxwell, or 
sturdy Doctor John Thorpe this time, but a for- 
eigner, a Frenchman, one Felix Leblond, by 
name, the manager of the Paris branch of my 
father’s business. It was a solemn moment, I can 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


39 


tell you, when father, ringing the bell, summoned 
Sarah and broke the news that within a week we 
were to receive an alien in our midst. “He will 
be with us upon the fifth of next month,” an- 
nounced my father, consulting the letter with the 
foreign postmark, “and will remain in all prob- 
ability for the space of one week.” 

Surprise kept me silent. To have a visitor at 
all in our quiet home was extraordinary; to have 
a Frenchman in our midst was unprecedented. 
We knew little of foreigners in Bursfield, indeed 
I do not think that within the length and breadth 
of the town anybody could have been found who 
was not of British extraction. We boasted neither 
French dressmakers nor governesses; no, nor even 
a stray dancing or music-master. 

Sarah stiffened visibly at the tidings. It was 
plain to be seen that she already disapproved 
strongly of the coming guest. 

“We shall do our best for the comfort of this 
friend of thine, Sylvester Strangeways,” said she. 
“But I fear that our plain ways are but ill suited 
to a Frenchman.” 

“I do not think that there lives a man, be he 
French or English, that thee couldst fail to make 
comfortable if thee set thy mind to it, my good 
Sarah,” replied my father. 

“In a plain way, Sylvester Strangeways,” con- 
ceded Sarah. “But neither Rebecca nor I know 
aught of the outlandish dishes foreigners are said 
to fancy.” 

“Frenchmen eat frogs,” I interposed ea- 
gerly. 

“Gertrude Poole says so. Shall we have to catch 


40 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


them out of the garden, father, for I am sure 
that the shops in Bursfield don’t sell frogs?” 

“Never will Rebecca or I have a hand in the 
cooking of such vermin!” exclaimed Sarah in 
mingled dismay and disgust. 

My father laughed outright. “Thee and Re- 
becca will cook good beef and mutton us usual, 
Sarah, with an occasional duck or chicken at 
seemly intervals. Thee must not take heed of the 
chatter of a foolish little girl like Silence here. 
All Frenchmen do not eat frogs.” 

Sarah retired to the kitchen with evident mis- 
giving, and I hurried to school brimful of my tid- 
ings, but arriving so late that I had to bottle them 
up as it were until the eleven o’clock recreation, 
when I called the girls together and broke it to 
them that a Frenchman was coming to stay at our 
house for seven whole days. 

“A Frenchman ! How tremendously exciting I” 
exclaimed Gertrude Poole. “Silence, shan’t you 
feel shy?” 

“Is he young or old?” 

“Have you got his photograph?” 

“Is he married?” 

“What’s his name?” 

I could only answer the last question. 

“Felix Leblond,” repeated Gertrude. “It’s a 
pretty name, but then so is Spencer Conyngham, 
and look how disappointing he was. I do wonder 
what this Monsieur Leblond will be like.” 

“I wonder what Frenchmen generally are 
like?” exclaimed Harriet Field, and I looked 
round helplessly. 

“Let’s get ‘Near Home’ and see,” exclaimed 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


41 


Victoria Emmeline Louise, seized by a sudden 
inspiration. “That will be sure to tell us some- 
thing about them.” 

“Near Home” was a favorite geography book 
of ours which told us all about the European coun- 
tries and their inhabitants in a pleasant story-tell- 
ing kind of way, very different from most of our 
other dull lesson-books. 

Victoria Emmeline Louise ran for a copy, 
which Harriet Field took from her, and hurriedly 
turning the pages presently exclaimed in triumph : 
“Here we are, girls. Just listen to this — ‘The 
French are a very polite nation.’ ” 

“Yes, I know that,” replied Laura Snowden, 
nodding her head in agreement with “Near 
Home.” 

“How should you know? Have you ever seen 
a Frenchman?” enquired Harriet suspiciously. 

“Not exactly a Frenchman,” admitted Laura, 
“but mamma and papa took me to the theater last 
summer and there was a man in the play who 
acted a Frenchman, and he was very, very polite.” 

“What did he do?” we enquired eagerly. 

“Oh, he kept taking off his hat and bowing. 
He bowed nearly all the time and shrugged his 
shoulders — like this. Oh ! he was polite.” 

“He will wonder. Silence, when he sees your 
papa with his hat on all the time,” exclaimed 
Gertrude. 

“The man in the play,” continued Laura, “was 
never called by his name, only just ‘Monsieur.’ ” 

“I am sure that father will not call Felix Le- 
blond ‘Monsieur,’ ” I sighed. “He wouldn’t 
think it right.” 


42 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“And your servants won’t call him ‘Monsieur,’ 
either, will they. Silence?” enquired Gertrude. 
“Won’t he think them very rude?” 

“Of course he will,” broke in Laura. “The 
servants were the only people in the play the 
Frenchman did not bow down to. He tossed his 
head when he spoke to them.” 

“He must have been a horrid snob,” commented 
Harriet. “But tell us, Laura, was he always gay, 
laughing and talking? ‘Near Home’ says the 
French always are.” 

“This one laughed and talked pretty nearly all 
the time he was on the stage,” replied Laura. 

“I do hope they are not all alike,” I exclaimed 
dismally: “if they are it will be a dreadful week 
both for him and for us.” 

“But a week is soon over,” suggested Har- 
riet comfortably. “If he is a sensible man, 
and even a Frenchman must be sensible some- 
times if he manages a big business like your 
papa’s, he will soon understand and won’t mind. 
Silence.” 

“I hate to think of him in business,” sighed 
Gertrude Poole. “I would much rather he came 
to Bursfield all smelling of lovely scent, waving 
his beautiful white hands and bowing all the 
time.” 

“I don’t know what Sarah and Rebecca will 
say if he does,” I exclaimed in dismay. 

The path of the Frenchman seemed little like 
to be strewn with roses in prosaic Bursfield, and I 
sighed sadly and often during the ensuing two or 
three days, feeling myself neglected because our 
two servants gave themselves up to such a thor- 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


43 


ough cleaning of the house in anticipation of the 
coming visitor that Sarah had no time to hear me 
read, Rebecca would bake me no cakes, and I 
spent such dreary hours in the lonely parlor that 
I was inhospitably driven to wish and wish again 
that the expected guest were safely back again in 
his own country. 

It was the prospect of the wedding cheered me. 
Few and far between had been the Quaker wed- 
dings at Bursfield, never one within my own mem- 
mory; but at last Friend Robert Maxwell’s son, 
John, after a five years’ courtship of the daughter 
of Friends Thomas and Priscilla Quin, had de- 
cided to get married upon the sixth of April, and 
my father and I were bidden to the ceremony. I 
was mightily pleased with my invitation, which 
arrived in a separate envelope from that of my 
father, just as though I were grown up, and still 
more pleased when my father consulted Priscilla 
Quin, begging her to be responsible for the choice 
of my wedding-garments. “Expense,” said my 
father, “was to be no object”; therefore, for the 
first time in my life, I was to be dressed in silk, 
dove-gray silk with bonnet to match — and the 
bride elect had her wedding-gown and bonnet 
made from the same piece of material, which, to 
use Rebecca’s expression, “nearly stood on end with 
richness.” The dress had been laid away in the 
spare-room wardrobe, almost long enough for a 
modern gown to have had time to go out of fash- 
ion ; and many a time I would steal into the room 
and opening the drawer would pat and smooth and 
fairly gloat over the silvery folds, reveling in the 
fineness of the snowy lawn collar and cuffs, like a 


44 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


regular little daughter of Eve and not at all like 
a prim unworldly Quaker maid. 

The wedding-day dawned clear and fine. I had 
a whole holiday in its honor, and Sarah had to 
leave her cleaning to help me don my finery, giv- 
ing me any amount of good advice all the while as 
to what I must not eat and drink at the breakfast, 
and how careful I must be to spill nothing upon 
the new silk gown. 

She nearly determined to send a special mes- 
senger to the Quins’ house bearing a clean pina- 
fore for me to wear during the banquet, but I 
begged so hard that she would do nothing of the 
sort that she finally relented. 

Either the dove color was more becoming than 
my usual stuff-gown, or excitement had flushed my 
cheeks and brightened my eyes, for when I joined 
my father in the parlor I remember how he 
patted my shoulder, exclaiming in a husky voice : 
“Thy mother would have been pleased to see thee 
to-day. Silence.” And then I took his hand and 
trotted by his side to the little whitewashed Meet- 
ing-house where were gathered together all the 
members of the Society of Friends in Bursfield. 

I left my father, and crossing over to the wom- 
en’s side seated myself demurely by Priscilla 
Quin, the bride’s mother, and folding my hands 
before me, as I had been taught to do, stole a 
glance full of interest at the bride and bridegroom, 
who sat side by side, facing the rest of the con- 
gregation: he wearing his best broadcloth and 
low-crowned, broad-brimmed Quaker hat, just like 
all the other men present: she dressed in the gray 
silk, her bent head hidden beneath the dove-col- 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


45 


ored bonnet. Everything was very quiet, and 
except for the two seated in full view of the little 
congregation the day seemed exactly like Sunday. 
There were, of course, no flowers or decorations 
of any description. 

I wondered how long the stillness would last. 
Sometimes on Sunday we would go home without 
one single voice having been raised during the 
two hours’ service. Unless the Spirit moved a 
member to pray or preach, he or she sat silent. 
The bride and bridegroom would, I knew, have 
to wait until the Spirit moved them to get mar- 
ried, but I did hope it would not take them very 
long. Sitting still is so much harder when one is 
excited. Also I was worldly enough to think of 
the dinner preparing. It was Friend Joseph Bart- 
lett broke the silence. He rose and solemnly 
urged his young friends (the bride and bride- 
groom) to be in no haste to take the momentous 
step. “Let there first be long and profitable 
meditation.” So said Friend Bartlett, and though 
I wished him well, and of course respected him 
highly, as did everyone else in Bursfield, I did 
hope that, should it ever be my fate to get mar- 
ried, something would happen to keep him away 
from the wedding, I was so terribly afraid of 
him. He was to me the personification of sever- 
ity, and upon the previous Sunday my heart had 
melted into pity for a young man who had felt 
it his duty to address the meeting, and after a 
few nervous and stammering sentences had been 
checked by Friend Bartlett with the pregnant 
words: “Friend, it is borne in uppn me that thee 
hadst best sit down.” 


46 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


How long we waited I know not, but it seemed 
a long while to me before the bridegroom rose 
and, taking the bride’s hand in his, declared be- 
fore the meeting that he took her to be his wife, 
and promised to be to her a loving and faithful 
husband so long as they both should live. The 
bride, in a lower tone, repeated the same promise : 
and they sat down again — married. And then I 
had a great surprise. Many a time had the Spirit 
moved my mother to address the congregation, 
but never had I heard my father either pray or 
preach. You will guess therefore what my feel- 
ings were, and I daresay the feelings of others 
also, when he rose suddenly and stood towering, 
a fine figure of a man, in the plain little Meeting- 
house. He was no orator, very different from 
my mother, whose message had flowed from her 
lips like a silvery trickling stream ; but his words, 
though halting, were eloquent with a passionate 
earnestness as he besought his “dear young 
friends” above all things to have confidence one 
with another; to walk in the truth, concealing 
nothing of fault or failure, either past or pres- 
ent. “God knows,” exclaimed my father, “how 
far a secret may go toward poisoning the life 
one has promised to love and cherish. Tell all 
out, my friends, let your hearts be to each other 
as an open book, for, where love is, there is no 
need for concealment.” His voice was husky as 
he called down God’s blessing on the newly mar- 
ried pair, and I am sorry to say I did not pay 
much attention to the prayer which followed, be- 
cause my heart was beating, and it was as though 
something were whispering in my ears: ^^The 


GREAT EXPECTATIONS 


47 


'History! The history which father never told 
mother y but left her to find out for herself 

There was a subdued rustle as the little congre- 
gation prepared to leave the Meeting-house. The 
wedding was over. I turned with the rest, and, lo 
and behold! there was yet another surprise in 
store for me, a surprise which put my father’s ad- 
dress entirely out of my head; for at the open 
door, full in the April sunshine, stood a man, hat 
in hand, and evidently no member of our Society, 
no native even of Bursfield — a stranger within 
our gates, whom my father, espying, stepped for- 
ward and welcomed, a shade of perplexity ming- 
ling with his cordial greeting. “Thee hast taken 
us by surprise, my friend, but nevertheless thee’s 
heartily welcome.” 

It was none other than the Frenchman, Felix 
Leblond. 


CHAPTER V 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 

Felix Leblond, it seemed, had concluded his 
business in London two full days earlier than he 
expected, and had come without delay to Bursfield, 
following close upon his telegram which must 
have arrived at our house immediately my father 
and I had left for the wedding. The Bursfield 
station-master had known all about this wedding, 
and had directed the stranger to the Meeting- 
house, where, he assured him, my father was 
likely to be found. All this the Frenchman ex- 
plained rapidly in his own language, and when 
he had heard him out my father plunged me into 
the direst dismay by suggesting to our host and 
hostess that he and I must perforce return unto 
our own house with our guest instead of taking 
our share in the wedding-breakfast. The tears of 
disappointment had, however, scarcely time to 
well up into my eyes before the hospitable Quins 
had extended their invitation to the foreigner, 
who accepted with alacrity, bowing low (just as 
Laura had predicted), murmuring a thousand 
thanks, and explaining in careful English, “how 
enchanted he was to meet Madame.” It was 
really exactly like “Near Home,” and would, I 
reflected, doubtless have sounded splendid in 
Laura’s stage-play; but it somehow sounded all 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 49 


wrong in Bursfield, especially in the present com- 
pany, and I am sure Thomas Quin thought so, 
too, for he replied with grave dignity: “Sylvester 
Strangeways will tell thee that we are plain peo- 
ple who do not deal in compliments, but we are 
happy to see thee or any friend of his.” The for- 
eigner bowed again, shrugged his shoulders and 
smiled slightly, while I thought what a wonderful 
book “Near Home” must be, and what a clever 
girl was Laura Snowden to know so much about 
Frenchmen without ever having seen a real one. 
We walked to the Quins’ house, my father, Felix 
Leblond and myself — I stealing sidelong glances 
at the stranger, so utterly unlike any of the few 
men it had been my lot to meet. 

He was rather above than under the average 
height, and squarely built, though not nearly so 
fine a man as my father. His clothes were similar 
to those the Bursfield gentlemen who were not 
Quakers wore on Sunday, only the stranger’s had 
a smarter effect, and I had never before seen the 
equal for glossy brilliance of his silk hat, nor of 
his patent-leather boots, which were very long 
and extremely pointed. I thought the boots beau- 
tiful; I am sorry to say I cannot say as much for 
his hands, which were adorned with ragged nails 
which matched the boots for blackness, and gave 
the instant Impression that the Frenchman’s at- 
tention to his finger ends was limited to biting 
them. I thought of Gertrude Poole’s face should 
she learn of this state of affairs, and I remem- 
bered how Rosamond Wyatt, convicted of the 
odious habit of biting her nails, had been bidden 
day by day to stand forth while bitter aloes were 


50 


' LITTLE GREY GIRL 


applied to her linger tips by the head-mistress in 
full view of the whole school. Had the French- 
man never had a mother or schoolmaster, I won- 
dered? His face puzzled me too. He smiled all 
the time with his mouth, and I think that his 
teeth must have been false, so regular were they, 
so brightly did they gleam from between his black 
mustache and short pointed beard; but his black 
beady eyes held no laughter in them as they darted 
restlessly from side to side, taking in every de- 
tail of the road, and especially of our two selves, 
whose costume, I daresay, appeared even more 
extraordinary to a foreigner than to our own 
countrymen. He was very lively, chatted freely 
and called me “mademoiselle” twice, a little to 
my discomfort, but very much to my secret de- 
light, and it was not until we were seated at table 
that I really knew whether I liked or disliked 
Felix Leblond. 

Judge of my feelings when Friend Joseph Bart- 
lett actually requested that I should bear him com- 
pany at table. Friend Bartlett had veiled severity 
for the time being under a mantle of benignity, 
actually venturing upon a few small jokes, rally- 
ing me upon my fine new gown, and assuring my 
father that “our young friend would be a woman 
in no time.” 

What a wonderful morning was this, and how 
shy I felt as I seated myself at the table beside 
Friend Bartlett, and bent my cropped head (the 
bonnet had been removed) in thanksgiving for 
the coming feast. And then suddenly I looked up 
before any of the rest, and there, exactly opposite, 
staring fixedly at me, sat the Frenchman smiling — 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 51 

but such a smile as I had never seen before, sneer- 
ing and sardonic, a smile that seemed to make 
sport of us and our queer ways; and from that 
moment I knew that I disliked Felix Leblond more 
than ever I had disliked anyone before in my 
short life. Could I have seen the part he was 
destined to play in my life during the coming 
months how I should have trembled. 

The wedding-breakfast was very good indeed, 
I thought it magnificent. Such mock turtle soup, 
such salmon and cucumber, early ducklings, plum- 
pudding with custard sauce, whipped cream and 
sponge cake, beautiful fruits and jellies; and 
Friend Bartlett was so assiduous in loading my 
plate with all manner of good things that my 
father was obliged to interfere, and our host 
gravely suggested that I had made a “conquest,” 
which mild joke afforded immense amusement to 
all present. 

I thought the lemonade and raspberry vinegar 
served with the breakfast delicious, but the 
stranger would have none of it, and at intervals 
sipped gingerly and with ill-concealed disgust at 
the soda-water by his side. 

He talked little at first, but as the meal pro- 
gressed he thawed somewhat and spoke of busi- 
ness, which was a satisfactory topic because all of 
the male Friends present were shrewd business- 
men who entered into the conversation with spirit; 
and though of course I could not understand what 
they were talking about, yet I noticed that every- 
body listened respectfully to the Frenchman’s 
opinions, delivered in his careful English, and I 
am sure that he gave a general impression 


52 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


that he was a very clever fellow — which in- 
deed he was. 

It was when the fruit was put upon the table 
that Priscilla Quin turned smiling to him: ‘T 
trust thee finds thy friend, Sylvester Strangeways, 
looking well in health? ” 

Felix Leblond glanced at my father, raised his 
eyebrows, smiled and bent toward his hostess. 

Well, to all appearance, madame, but changed — 
naturally. It is eleven years since I had the 
pleasure of seeing Monsieur Strangeways.” 

“And eleven years ago I saw but little of thee, 
Felix Leblond,” observed my father quietly. 
“Thee was, if I remember aright, chiefly at 
Lyons.” 

“You have an excellent memory, my friend,” 
replied the Frenchman nonchalantly. “Yes, I 
have seen but little of you it is true, though I 
have heard a great deal.” 

“In the way of business, naturally,” remarked 
one of the company. 

“In the way of business, and otherwise,** replied 
the Frenchman, glancing at my father and smiling 
enigmatically. “We have I believe a mutual 
friend in Monsieur de Briennais.” 

“Monsieur de Briennais is no friend of mine,” 
replied my father quietly. 

“Mille pardons! I was forgetting,” exclaimed 
Felix Leblond. “I should doubtless have referred 
to Madame la Comtesse de Castelle.” 

“The past is dead,” replied my father sternly. 
“Thee will have the goodness, Leblond, to leave 
it decently buried.” 

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. Once 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 53 


or twice in my life I had seen our cat playing with 
a mouse, and my blood had boiled with anger at 
the sight of such cruelty, though after all the cat 
was only obeying a natural instinct. Felix Leblond 
was just like the cat, thought I, for I could plainly 
see that he was trying to torment and hurt my 
father, and had I dared I would have turned upon 
him, as I had turned upon the girls at school who 
had called me plain and outlandish. In the com- 
pany of my elders I was obliged to control my 
indignation, and after all my father was no feeble 
mouse to allow himself to be tormented, but a 
strong man who, to use Laura Snowden’s ex- 
pression, had “snubbed” the Frenchman, and was 
now chatting as quietly as though the latter had 
said nothing displeasing to him. But I knew that 
the wedding guests, who, though Friends, were 
by no means devoid of curiosity, I knew they 
were wondering what the people with the fine- 
sounding names had to do with my father — any 
way he had no wish to speak of that person whom 
Felix Leblond called “Madame la Comtesse de 
Castelle.” 

We walked home quietly after the wedding, 
and my father and the Frenchman exchanged few 
and commonplace remarks. Arrived at the house 
my father was called away upon a little matter 
of business, and the visitor, completely ignoring 
my presence, crossed to the window and leisurely 
lighted a cigarette. 

“Sylvester Strangeways turned Quaker!” I 
heard him mutter. “Good God, what a fool the 
man must be!” 

I had never heard the name of God taken in 


54 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


vain before, and I hesitated a moment, half ex- 
pecting some terrible judgment from heaven to 
overtake our visitor. Nothing, however, hap- 
pened, and I rushed across the room, just as I 
had done at school months ago upon that thirty- 
first day of January, and stood before him pant- 
ing with rage. “Don’t thee dare to call my father 
a fool,” said I. 

Felix Leblond turned and looked me over from 
head to foot, his eyes half shut, his teeth gleam- 
ing from between his black mustache and beard. 
Presently he laughed aloud, a maddening laugh 
which enraged me more than ever. “My father 
may be a Quaker,” I exclaimed, “but he is what 
the girls call a gentleman — and thee is not/* 

My bonnet had fallen back in my excitement, 
and Felix Leblond, stepping forward, took hold 
of my ear and pinched it hard. 

“Little devil,” said he, “what you want is a 
good whipping.” 

I stood stock still in absolute terror. To hear 
the Almighty’s name taken in vain was dreadful; 
to be called “devil” was, above all things, horrible. 
I knew not what to say or do, and it was only the 
entrance of my father recalled me to myself. 

“Silence,” he exclaimed, “what is the matter? 
What ails thee?” 

“Mademoiselle has just done me the honor to 
tell me I am no gentleman,” observed our visitor 
laughing. 

^^Silence, is this true?” 

I had nothing to say for myself, for tale-bearing 
found no favor in our family. 

“I am ashamed of thee,” continued my father. 


THE STRANGER WITHIN THE GATES 55 

“Thee will go to thy room and thee will copy out 
the seventeenth chapter of Paul the Apostle to the 
Ephesians. And to-morrow thee will apologize to 
our guest for the insult thee has offered him.” 

“Oh, come, mon ami,” exclaimed the French- 
man, looking a little conscience-stricken. “I fear 
I am something of a tease and provoked made- 
moiselle.” 

He did not, however, confess to the remark 
which had led to all the trouble. 

“Nothing excuses discourtesy to a guest,” re- 
plied my father stiffly, and I crept away to my 
room, where I toiled at my task of Scripture- 
copying, while the tears blotted the page before 
me, and trickled down upon the new dove-colored 
silk I had that very morning put on so proudly 
and joyously. 


CHAPTER VI 


CAT AND MOUSE 

I apologized handsomely to the Frenchman 
early next morning before breakfast. My fit of 
temper having died away I really did feel that I 
had been unpardonably rude, and the verses I had 
copied were convincing. “Let all bitterness and 
wrath and anger be put away from you, with all 
malice.” And again: “Be ye kind to one an- 
other, tender-hearted, forgiving one another.” 
It was just as though the apostle Paul stood before 
me and told me plainly: “Silence Strangeways, 
although thee’s got a wicked man in thy midst, 
there is no reason why thee should insult him.” 
Therefore I asked pardon humbly, and Felix 
Leblond received my apology with a low bow, 
begging that mademoiselle would say no more 
about the matter; and I retreated behind the 
coffee-pot while my father and the Frenchman 
talked business all breakfast-time. 

But there seemed no end to the misery which 
our guest was destined to bring upon me. As 
soon as breakfast was finished my father took 
up a newspaper as usual, and I began to put my 
books together, while the Frenchman produced 
a book with a yellow cover out of his pocket and 
began to read it. Suddenly he muttered some- 
thing about a letter, jumped up and left the room, 


CAT AND MOUSE 


5t 


placing the book at the extreme edge of the 
chimney-piece from whence it suddenly tumbled 
with a bang into the grate. I ran to pick it up 
and, struck by the cover which contained a pic- 
ture, stood looking at it attentively instead of at 
once returning it to the chimney-piece. I believe 
the picture represented a lady fainting in the arms 
of a gentleman, but I had not time to look long 
because the book was snatched from me, while 
Sarah’s voice exclaimed sternly: “The naughty, 
naughty child!” 

“Oh! Sarah,” I whimpered, “I was doing no 
harm, only picking up the Frenchman’s book.” 

“Thee was studying that sinful picture. Silence. 
Don’t thee dare to deny it.” 

“I was looking at the picture,” I admitted. “I 
didn’t know I was doing wrong, Sarah.” 

My father laid down his paper and, crossing 
the room, took the book from me. “The child 
intended no harm,” said he. “But in future thee 
must not examine strange books without permis- 
sion, Silence.” 

He was about to return the book to the chimney- 
piece when his eye caught the title and he frowned, 
while at the same moment the Frenchman came 
back to the parlor. 

“I should esteem it a favor,” exclaimed my 
father sternly, “if thee would keep such literature 
under lock and key in thine own room. I am 
sorry that thee should have brought such an in- 
famous book beneath my roof, Felix Leblond.” 

The Frenchman put the book into his pocket, 
without one word of apology, and glancing from 
one to another of us began to laugh lightly. “Has 


58 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


la p’tite been getting hold of it?” he inquired, 
shaking his ragged forefinger at me. “Ah! 
mechante, mechante!” 

“The child picked thy book from out of the 
ashes, where it had far better have lain,” replied 
my father sharply. 

“I am deeply indebted to mademoiselle,” ex- 
claimed Felix Leblond, bowing low with his hand 
on his heart, but nevertheless continuing to laugh 
that maddening mocking laugh. “I would not 
have lost my book for the world. I have just 
reached the denouement.” 

My father flushed, bit his lip, and left the room 
hastily. 

The words of the seventeenth chapter of the 
Epistle to the Ephesians had entirely faded from 
my mind before I reached school that morning, 
and as the girls gathered round me and began to 
question me concerning the new arrival, I was 
quite ready to candidly express my opinion con- 
cerning him in spite of my mother’s teaching. 
“Silence,” she had frequently admonished me, “if 
thee can find nought good to say of others, at 
least thee can keep silence concerning them.” 

How shocked she would have been could she 
have heard and seen me that morning, seated in 
the midst of an interested group of girls and freely 
giving my opinion concerning the foreigner. 

“I do not like the French,” I began impres- 
sively. “I think they are a horrid people.” 

“But you only know one,” began the fair- 
minded Harriet, and was instantly interrupted by 
Gertrude Poole. 

“Oh! Harriet, do be quiet and let Silence tell 


CAT AND MOUSE 


59 


us about this Monsieur. What is he like, Silence? 
Why don’t you like him?” 

“He laughs all the time, and I hate to hear him 
laugh, it sounds horrid,” I replied. “He waves 
his hands, just as Laura said he would, and his 
finger nails are all dirty and ragged and bitten.” 

There was a horror-stricken silence, broken by 
Victoria Emmeline Louise. “He can’t be a gentle- 
man!” 

“I suppose,” hesitated Harriet, “I suppose it 
would hardly be fair to expect him to be quite a 
gentleman. You see. Silence, he is only a 
manager, and though everyone likes John Cobham 
and thinks a great deal of him, yet you couldn’t 
call him a gentleman, could you?” 

John Cobham was my father’s manager at 
Bursfield, a dear old man and a great favorite of 
mine. “I only wish Felix Leblond were half as 
nice,” I cried. “I think old John is a gentleman, 
he has such nice, quiet manners.” 

“Hasn’t the Frenchman nice manners?” in- 
quired Harriet, rather startled. 

I thought for a moment. “His manners,” I 
announced presently, “are like a clean pinafore 
over a dirty dress.” 

“I know what you mean,” exclaimed Gertrude, 
“on the top he’s all right.” 

“Exactly,” I broke in, “bowing and smiling and 
waving his horrid hands, just as Laura said he 
would — that’s the pinafore.” 

“And underneath?” 

“Underneath he’s cheeky,” I replied, bringing 
out the un-Quaker-like word unblushingly. 

And, as the week wore on, Felix Leblond con- 


6o 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


tinued “cheeky,” exactly how I could not have de- 
scribed. It was his manner which was so objec- 
tionable rather than anything he said and did, for 
the novel did not appear again, nor did he call my 
father and myself names; but his civility gave 
even me, a child, the impression that he despised 
us all from the bottom of his heart. He paid not 
the slightest deference to my father as the head 
of the manufactory, and he openly sneered at old 
John Cobham, calling him antediluvian, and say- 
ing that the Bursfield methods of business were 
old-fashioned and out of date. I think he must 
have wanted to do something which was not 
straight and honorable, for I heard my father, 
who looked a great deal more worried and stern 
since his arrival, I heard him distinctly tell our 
visitor that the Bursfield methods were the 
methods on which the business should be con- 
ducted as long as he was master. 

It was a wretched week. I grew to fairly hate 
the sight of the Frenchman with his smiling, sneer- 
ing face, and I am sorry to say that in spite of 
my training I often heartily wished that I could 
pay him out for his insolence. It isn’t often one 
gets one’s wish very quickly in this life, but to- 
ward the end of the week my opportunity ac- 
tually came, and, would you believe it? Felix Le- 
blond literally cringed to me, little Silence Strange- 
ways, during the last two days of his visit. 

It happened thus. I came home from school 
one afternoon, and, Sarah being out, Rebecca fixed 
some work for me, and I prepared ta take it in 
the parlor as usual. “But be very quiet. Silence,” 
admonished Rebecca, “for I believe thy visitor 


CAT AND MOUSE 


6i 


is busy writing.” Our cook liked the Frenchman 
better than anyone else in the house did, because 
he showed such appreciation of her cookery. I 
had always been taught to move very quietly, and 
I had no wish to disturb anyone at work, so I 
went into the parlor on tip-toe, turning the door 
handle silently, and seating myself so quietly that 
Felix Leblond never so much as turned to see who 
had come into the room; in fact, so engrossed was 
he with his work that I don’t think he heard any- 
thing. The cat was with me, lying on the rug 
beside the fire, and I worked away diligently, giv- 
ing no thought to our visitor, who sat before the 
window bending over a pile of papers. 

For quite half an hour puss looked a real 
Quaker cat, gray, demure and thoughtful, just as 
though she were holding a meeting all to herself; 
and then suddenly a mouse popped out of a hole, 
and she turned into a wild beast. Away she 
dashed across the room on to the writing-table, 
scattering the Frenchman’s papers and overturn- 
ing the ink, which flowed freely among them. 

Felix Leblond jumped up, and he said some 
words which I could not understand, but I am 
sure they were very dreadful, and I think he 
would have killed the cat but that he seemed so 
frightfully anxious to rescue his property. The 
mouse escaped down the hole, and puss crouched 
bristling before it, while I, half-frightened, half- 
laughing, dropped my sewing and, running for- 
ward, picked up a loose sheet of paper, which, 
together with some blotting-paper, had flown on 
to the floor, and began to mop up the great spots 
of ink upon it. 


62 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Felix Leblond collected his papers, muttering 
and exclaiming the while, and suddenly turning 
espied me hard at work in the middle of the room. 
With a cry he snatched the paper from me and 
stood over me panting, his hands trembling, his 
face as white as chalk. 

‘‘You little spy, how dare you!” he exclaimed. 
“You have been reading my paper!” 

Now, had the Frenchman spoken to me civilly, 
I should at once have told him that I had not read 
one word on the page, but I considered that he was 
very unlikely to believe me, even if I did tell the 
truth, and I highly resented being called “spy,” 
which was, in my code of honor, almost as bad as 
“tell-tale.” Therefore I stood still in sullen 
silence and he took hold of my shoulder and shook 
me violently. “Mechante,” cried he, “confess that 
you have read every word.” 

“If thee touches me again or calls me names I 
will tell my father,” I answered defiantly. 

“You will tell him — what you have read here?” 

I was silent. 

Felix Leblond, clutching the bundle of papers, 
threw himself into an arm-chair and began to 
gnaw at the fingers of his left hand. He appeared 
to be lost in thought, and I stood watching him, 
wickedly conscious of a growing sense of power. 
“I will never let him know that I didn’t read it — 
never — never , said I to myself. 

We watched each other for a few moments, 
just as the cat was watching the mouse-hole, then 
Felix Leblond took his fingers out of his mouth, 
stuffed the papers in his pockets, and came toward 
me, holding out his hand and smiling — but there 


CAT AND MOUSE 63 

was nothing cynical or sneering in his smile this 
time. 

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I owe you an 
apology for what I said just now. I had no right 
to call you ‘spy.’ It was of course natural for 
you to glance at that paper, which, by the way, 
I was just going to burn. You will forgive me if I 
tell you that it would be most dishonorable to 
repeat information gained in this manner.” 

“What a mean sneak he must be,” thought 
I, “to think that I would read his horrid 
letter and then chatter about it.” Aloud I said 
nothing. 

“You understand, mademoiselle?” 

“If thee wishes to burn thy letter,” said I, 
“there is the fire ready to hand.” 

He bit his lip and glared at me for a moment, 
then smiled again and held out his hand. “You 
will forgive me, mademoiselle?” 

“If thee wishes it, Felix Leblond.” 

“And you will not tell?” 

“Tell about what?” 

“About what! sapristi, about the contents of 
the paper.” 

“I will not tell,” I replied with dignity. 

He raised my hand to his lips, and to my ex- 
treme discomfort imprinted a kiss upon it. 

“Don’t thee do that again,” I exclaimed angrily, 
rubbing the back of my hand violently with my 
handkerchief. 

“I meant it for a compliment, mademoiselle,” 
he replied humbly. “It is an attention frequently 
paid to ladies in France.” 

“But we are in England and I am only a little 


64 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


girl,” I objected. “I don’t mind being called 
‘mademoiselle,’ but I hate thatP* 

“I will not offend again,” he assured me. 

Half an hour later my father found us seated 
at opposite corners of the chimney-piece, I sewing 
diligently, while our visitor strove to amuse me by 
pleasant chit-chat concerning Paris and Parisian 
life — ^yet ever and anon glancing uneasily at me as 
though wondering would I, or would I not, keep 
the secret? I wondered what could have been 
the contents of that paper. And puss meanwhile 
sat in her corner watching — watching for the 
mouse which would not venture out again. 


CHAPTER VII 


THE FRUIT OF DREAMS 

The end of the Frenchman’s visit was very 
much more agreeable than the beginning. Neither 
my father nor myself had to suffer any more 
insolence; indeed, Felix Leblond’s whole manner 
changed and he seemed feverishly eager to please 
me in every possible way. It is true that one day, 
when I went unexpectedly into the parlor, the cat 
flew out of the room with a terrible yell, but our 
visitor explained that he had inadvertently trodden 
upon her tail, and told me again and again how 
extremely sorry he was that such a thing should 
have happened. Also that same evening he 
brought me a present of a huge box of chocolate 
creams, and though I disliked him as much as 
ever, and for several reasons longed to give the 
sweetmeats back, yet such was my weakness for 
chocolate that I decided that it would be more 
polite to accept the gift graciously; and it was 
a proud moment for me when I bore it in triumph 
to school, and summoned my friends among the 
girls to share the feast. 

I was very glad, however, to see the last of our 
visitor, and my father breathed a sigh of relief 
when we sat down to tea in our old quiet way ; just 
he and I together. 

“I am glad to be alone with thee again. Silence,” 


66 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


he said quietly (he had got into the way of talking 
to me at meals, just like he used to talk to 
mother), “Felix Leblond is not the man I care to 
have in my house.” 

I simply answered: “Yes, father, it is nice to 
be by ourselves again” — for I did not dare tell 
him how heartily I agreed with him in disliking 
our late visitor. 

“I was glad to see, however, that his manner 
improved considerably during the past two days,” 
continued my father. 

“That was because he thought I knew,” I 
blurted forth eagerly. 

“Knew what. Silence?” 

“I don’t know, father.” 

“Don’t be foolish, child,” admonished my 
father rather sharply. “Thee actually means to 
imply that Felix Leblond was afraid of thee?” 

“He was afraid,” I protested. “He thinks I 
know what was in the letter and he is dreadfully 
afraid.” And I proceeded to tell my father the 
whole story about the cat and mouse, the scatter- 
ing of the papers, and the Frenchman’s dismay 
and anger when he found me blotting one of them. 

“But thee shouldst have told him that thee 
hadst seen nothing,” exclaimed my father. 

“He would not have believed me, father. He 
called me ‘spy’ and took hold of my arm and 
shook me. He was very angry, but afterwards 
he begged my pardon and asked me to promise 
to tell nobody what was in the paper.” 

My father looked more angry than I had ever 
seen him. 

“He actually dared to shake theel” 


THE FRUIT OF DREAMS 


67 


“He was in such a passion, but afterwards thee 
saw for thyself, father, how polite he became just 
because he thought that I knew what was in the 
letter.’’ 

“The sweetmeats then were ‘hush-money’?” 
exclaimed my father. 

“What is ‘hush-money’?” 

“Money paid as a bribe for silence,” he replied 
thoughtfully. “Thee should not have accepted 
them, child, had I known of all this.” 

I felt relieved that the Frenchman was far 
away by now, and that the chocolates were more 
than half eaten. 

“I cannot understand Felix Leblond,” continued 
my father, as though speaking to himself. “I am 
sure that he has some deep-laid scheme of his own 
on hand, also that he holds secrets concerning 
Paris which are not known to the rest of us. He 
wishes to retire from the business.” 

“Oh, father, what a good thing,” I cried joy- 
fully. “Thee will let him go, and then thee will 
get somebody nice in his place, like John Cob- 
ham.” 

My father smiled a little sadly. “It is not so 
easy as thee thinks, child. Felix Leblond is a 
clever man and was esteemed highly by thy grand- 
father, who gave him no inconsiderable share in 
the business. We have had. many expenses lately, 
both in France and Bursfield, and it would be 
extremely inconvenient to pay out a large sum to 
Leblond upon retiring, also he has a grip of the 
business, and it will be hard to find anyone to 
take his place without delay.” 

“What will thee do, father?” 


68 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


‘T must go to Paris myself, child and look 
into affairs. I feel I have trusted Felix Le- 
blond too long and too thoroughly, but the 
business has prospered rarely under his man- 
agement.” 

“Doesn’t he want to work any more?” I in- 
quired. 

My father looked perplexed. “I think he must 
have a share in some business I know nothing 
about,” said he. “I cannot imagine Felix Leblond 
idle.” 

“Father,” I inquired eagerly, but a little ner- 
vously. “Father, does he really know those people 
with the beautiful name you used to know long ago 
in Paris?” 

“I cannot understand it,” exclaimed my father. 
“Felix Leblond is not of the class which associates 
with the de Castelles ; and yet from his manner of 
speech — society in Paris must have changed 
mightily within the last ten years.” 

“Perhaps that letter would have told us all 
about everything,” I suggested. “I almost wish 
I had read it.” 

“I am truly thankful that thee did nothing so 
dishonorable,” replied my father sternly. 

I hated the idea of my father going to Paris. 
He would be away several weeks, if not longer, 
and it was a dreary prospect for me to be left 
alone at home with Sarah and Rebecca. To make 
matters worse, scarlet fever broke out in Bursfield 
during the last week in April, and school was 
closed for a couple of months, so I hadn’t even 
the company of the girls. I thought at first that 
such a long holiday would be delightful, but in 


THE FRUIT OF DREAMS 69 

less than a week I was heartily sick of my own 
society and longed for lessons again. 

I missed my mother terribly, for, though so 
strict, she had been a real companion to me, and 
I could not visit or receive my schoolfellows for 
fear of infection. I brooded over the time when 
I should be deserted by my father, and I lost my 
appetite and began to grow thin. Morning after 
morning Sarah dosed me with tablespoonfuls of 
a horrible mixture called “brimstone-and-treacle,” 
but it didn’t seem to do me any good, and the crisis 
came one night when my father and the house- 
maid were both out, and I had been left in the 
charge of Rebecca, the cook. She, good soul, 
greatly concerned by my want of appetite, tempted 
me with hot griddle-cakes, liberally spread with 
butter, and I made an excellent supper and went 
to bed — to dream. 

I shall never forget that dream. It rises as 
clearly before me to-day as on that May evening 
of forty years ago, and I awoke from it shrieking 
so loudly with terror that my father rushed into 
the room, fully convinced that I was beginning 
in the fever. 

“Father, father,” I screamed, flinging myself 
into his arms. “Don’t thee go to Paris. Don!t 
thee go to Parish* 

My father felt my head and my hands. “Art 
thee in pain. Silence? Tell father what ails thee.” 

“Thee won’t go, father,” I repeated hysteri- 
cally. “Promise me thee won’t go.” 

“Thee must try to stop crying, child, or thee will 
be ill.” 

“I’ve been in Paris to-night, father.” 


70 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Thee has been dreaming, my dear little girl.’* 

“Fve been in Paris,” I insisted, clinging fran- 
tically to him. “Is Paris a big place, with wide 
white streets and tall trees?” 

“Thee has doubtless seen some pictures,” re- 
plied my father evasively; “or Felix Leblond 
talked to thee of the Boulevards.” 

“I saw him,” I whispered. “There were a lot 
of men covered with blood. I think they were 
dead. And the Frenchman was there in such a 
queer place — and he wanted to kill thee, oh, 
father!” 

“It was only an evil dream, little one.” 

“But Pm frightened, father — so dreadfully 
frightened.” 

“But my dear little girl,” whispered my father, 
“thee must remember that nothing can happen 
without the Will of God. We are all in His 
Hands.” 

“But He didn’t save mother,” I sobbed. “And 
if thee dies, father, I shan’t have anybody left in 
the whole world. Oh ! I can’t bear it.” 

He held me very close and kissed me a great 
many times; then, when I had stopped crying, he 
patted my hand and laughed softly. “Dost thee 
not think that father is big enough to take care of 
himself. Silence? He is bigger and broader by 
far than Felix Leblond.” 

“That is true,” I answered, somewhat re- 
assured, “thee’s big, father, and he is clever.” 

“Thee deals in plain-speaking, child,” exclaimed 
my father, laughing outright. He seemed so 
much amused that I began to laugh too, and not a 
little comforted fell fast asleep again, my arms 


THE FRUIT OF DREAMS 71* 

around his neck and my head on his breast. And, 
do you know, he actually watched by me the whole 
night long, though I am sure there was no neces- 
sity, as I slept soundly, and without any more 
dreams, for many hours. 

The next morning there was a great searching 
for scarlet spots upon my neck and chest, and 
though none could be found, yet Doctor John 
Thorpe’s brougham stopped at our gate, and the 
doctor himself was ushered into the parlor where 
I sat listlessly before a good fire, although it was 
a bright morning at the beginning of May. 

John Thorpe looked at my neck and my tongue, 
and he felt my pulse, and he tapped and prodded 
me, and then he asked what I had eaten the pre- 
vious night before going to bed. He frowned 
when he was told about the griddle-cakes. “The 
cook ought to know better,” said he severely. 
“Greasy hot cakes at that time of night, or any 
other time! It is no wonder our young friend 
slept badly.” 

Sarah spoke up for Rebecca, telling the doctor 
that cook had been anxious to tempt my appetite, 
which had been so poor of late; and my father, 
sighing, observed that “the child missed her 
mother sadly.” 

Then the doctor asked a great many more ques- 
tions, all about what I did all day, how I amused 
myself, did I like playing in the garden, etc. ? He 
didn’t seem pleased with the answers, for I 
thought I heard him mutter something about “an 
old woman before her time”; and then he patted 
my cropped head and asked to speak to my father 
privately. 


72 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


A bottle of medicine arrived during the after- 
noon (not half so nasty, however, as the brim- 
stone-and-treacle) ; and at tea-time my father con- 
stantly persuaded me to try to eat more, and spent 
the whole of the evening writing what appeared 
to be a very important letter. 

During the next few days I had as nice a time as 
any lonely child could wish, so many were the 
books and toys my father brought me, so gentle 
were Sarah and Rebecca, so tempting were the 
little dishes prepared for me by the latter. Ex- 
cepting for the medicine I had almost forgotten 
I was supposed to be an invalid, when one evening 
my father called me to him, and I left my picture- 
puzzle to find him seated at his desk, an open 
letter in his hand. 

“Silence,” said he, “how would thee like to go 
away from Bursfield and stay in the country?” 

My heart stood still with excitement. “Go into 
the country? With thee, father?” 

“No, no, child. I only wish it were possible, 
but thee knows there is Paris.” 

“Is it to school thee will send me?” 

“Not to school, child,” replied my father, smil- 
ing. “Thee has done with books for several weeks- 
to come. John Thorpe is of opinion that there is 
a danger of thee growing up too learned. No, 
thee will go to stay with thy mother’s cousin, 
Naomi Robinson, at Gorley, a village on the river 
Thames, some fifty miles from London.” 

I had heard my mother speak of a cousin 
Naomi, who had left Bursfield a quarter of a cen- 
tury ago, upon her marriage with one Benjamin 
Robinson. 


THE FRUIT OF DREAMS 


73 


“Thy cousins have no children,” continued my 
father, “but they write that they will do their best 
to make thee happy; and they have a beautiful 
garden full of fruit and flowers. Thee will like 
that. Silence?” 

“Father,” I exclaimed eagerly, “will the country 
at Gorley be like the country in the ‘Fairchild 
Family’ — I mean will the birds sing in the trees, 
and will the flowers we see in the shops here grow 
in the fields?” 

My father assured me that there would be no 
lack of birds or flowers at Gorley. 

“Oh, father,” cried I, “if only thee could go 
too. Wouldn’t we be happy!” 

But that, of course, was impossible. The next 
few days fairly flew; cousin Naomi Robinson 
wrote a kind little letter begging me to come 
soon, and telling me that a white kitten awaited 
me. She did not, however, use “thou” and “thee” 
in her note, and, in spite of my delight at the pros- 
pect of my visit, my mind sorely misgave me when 
I considered the subject of my clothes. Of these a 
couple of new thin gray-stuff dresses had been be- 
spoken in breathless haste, with bonnets en suite, 
a dozen pairs of white stockings were bought and 
marked, also twelve petticoats made of plain white 
linen and guiltless of tucks, embroidery or any 
adornment — a regular trousseau, had it but been 
of the right sort. The gray-silk bonnet and gown 
were carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed 
away in the trunk for best; but you cannot imagine 
how I longed for a new dress, black bombazine for 
choice, trimmed with row upon row of black crape, 
with a straw hat to match, adorned with bows of 


74 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


crape and a black feather. Thus had Beatrice 
Stevens mourned her mother, and I pined to arrive 
in Gorley wearing the same somber garments. 
This, however, was not to be and I was forced to 
content myself with Quaker gray. But one con- 
cession, and only one, was made the night before 
I left home. My father stopped Sarah in the 
very act of taking me to the hair-dresser, telling 
her t?hat my mother had always intended that my 
hair should grow long at ten years of age, and 
that he had decided to have it cropped no more. 
My head was a subject of intense worry to Sarah 
during the whole of the evening, not because she 
was unwilling that my hair should grow, far from 
it, but because there was no time now to prepare 
the requisite number of white caps, wherewith to 
cover my tresses when they should become 
luxuriant. My father dismissed the subject lightly, 
after the manner of men, explaining that he had 
already paid cousin Naomi a generous sum for 
my maintenance, and that she would doubtless 
make any necessary purchase for me, including 
caps. 

I did hope she would forget the latter. 


CHAPTER VIII 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 

We left Bursfield, my father and I, on a lovely 
May morning, and Sarah wept at parting from me 
more bitterly than she had cried the night my 
mother died. Her grief was a surprise to me, 
because she had never failed to impress upon me 
the immense amount of trouble little girls (and 
especially myself) gave their elders, and how ex- 
tremely thankful they ought to be to parents and 
teachers for feeding, clothing and generally caring 
for them ; yes, and for punishing them when they 
deserved it. And now Sarah ate her words, so 
to speak, swallowing them with the waters of 
affliction in the shape of copious tears. 

For my father called me to him at bed-time the 
night before we left home, and explained simply 
and directly that cousins Naomi and Benjamin 
Robinson v/ere not rich folk, and that against their 
own wishes he had insisted upon making a proper 
allowance for me while under their roof. There 
had never been any secrets in our family (except 
when the Frenchman was with us, and I had nearly 
forgotten him by this time) , and my father did not 
scruple to tell me that cousin Naomi was to receive 
two pounds a week for my board and lodging and 
a pound extra for the trouble of looking after me. 

“But do I really give twenty shillings’ worth of 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


76 

trouble every week?’’ I exclaimed, aghast at the 
magnitude of the sum mentioned. ‘‘Oh! father, 
and I try so hard to be good!” 

“And very well thee succeeds,” replied my 
father, smiling, “but thee must remember that it 
is a responsibility for thy cousin to have the care 
of a little girl who is not her own, and that is what 
I meant when I spoke of ‘trouble,’ Silence.” 

“I shall try very hard to be a good girl while I 
am at Gorley,” I continued to Sarah as she tucked 
me up in bed that last night. “Father is paying 
cousin Naomi a whole sovereign a week for the 
trouble I am to give, and it would be dreadful if 
it came to more money, wouldn’t it, Sarah?” 

“Bless thy little heart, thee is no trouble,” ex- 
claimed Sarah with hot indignation. “Let anyone 

dare to say ” She broke off suddenly, and 

hurried out of the room with a burst of tears. 

And now here we were on the platform of 
Euston station, and Joseph Bartlett was there too, 
also Thomas and Priscilla Quin with their newly 
married daughter and her husband, not to mention 
several other Bursfield “Friends,” all come to 
London Town with the object of attending the 
May greetings; and though we all traveled first- 
class, yet the porters eyed our luggage a little bit 
askance, and certainly the ancient carpet bags and 
tin boxes did look different to the smart leather 
bags and trunks of the other first-class passengers. 

However, our boxes and bundles were collected 
at last and piled upon the tops of four-wheelers, 
and away we drove to the house in Portman 
Square, where Thomas Quin had engaged lodg- 
ings for himself and his wife, as well as a couple 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 


77 


of bedrooms for my father and myself for the 
two nights we were to be in London. I remember 
so well how we had a little tea-party that first 
evening, and Joseph Bartlett came to join it, also 
the newly married couple, John and Ruth Max- 
well; and the latter had bought, while upon her 
honeymoon, and was even then wearing, a new 
cap, a very nice cap and a plain cap, but not quite 
a Quaker cap, toward which Joseph Bartlett 
pointed an accusing forefinger, at the same time 
solemnly declaiming that verse from Dr. Watt’s 
Hymn, which says: 

“Why should these garments made to hide 
“Our parents' shame provoke our pride? 

“The art of dress did ne’er begin 
“Till Eve, our mother, learnt to sin.” 

Poor Ruth blushed to the roots of her hair, and 
her husband turned very red too ; but I think that 
his was the flush of indignation rather than that of 
shame, for he frowned as he glanced at Friend 
Bartlett, assuring him that during the past months 
he and his wife had enjoyed the privilege of meet- 
ing several Friends, all very excellent people, but 
who were much more lenient as regards apparel 
than the members of the Society at Bursfield. 

Joseph Bartlett did not look at all pleased on 
receipt of this piece of information, and he said 
stiffly that he was sorry that the lust of the world 
had apparently taken possession of his young 
friends. I am sure poor Ruth’s pleasure in her 
new cap was effectually spoilt, because she slipped 
from the room directly tea was over, reappearing 
in a cap belonging to her mother of the most 
approved Quaker pattern. 


78 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


The next day I spent in what was for me a riot 
of dissipation. My father and I visited the Tower 
of London in the morning, the Zoological Garden 
in the afternoon; and at Joseph Bartlett’s special 
request I was taken to a Missionary May Meet- 
ing in the evening, where I could hardly keep my 
eyes open for weariness after I had got used to 
the surprise of finding that John Maxwell was 
perfectly right and that a number of the female 
Friends present had discarded the orthodox dress 
in favor of the strangest garments I had ever seen. 
They were baggy and shapeless for the most part, 
and made out of such dingy materials, faded 
greens, browns and purples, that I really did not 
think the wearers had exchanged for the better; 
and Joseph Bartlett certainly did not, because I 
believe at one of the meetings he stood up and 
delivered a scathing speech at their expe^e. I 
was afterwards told that these dresses were sup- 
posed to be “artistic” and I understood that, later 
on, a certain opera called “Patience” made great 
game of them. I was glad to have seen them at 
the Meeting because they prepared me in a 
measure for the sight of cousin Naomi, which 
sight would otherwise have been a tremendous 
shock to me. 

We arrived at the station, after a visit to the 
British Museum, upon the afternoon of the next 
day and just in time to catch our train. We fol- 
lowed the porter hurriedly along the platform, I 
clinging to my father’s hand and looking about me 
with interest, when my eye fell upon a lady stand- 
ing alone, at the open door of a railway-carriage. 
I looked and looked again, for she was entirely 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 


79 


different to any woman I had ever seen in my life 
before. To begin with, she was much more beau- 
tiful. Her eyes were like blue stars, and her hair, 
which was only partly concealed by her little 
bonnet, was of a wonderful golden auburn. Her 
dark silk traveling gown and mantle were per- 
fectly plain, but looked, oh! so different to the 
other gowns upon the platform, though that may 
have been because hers were worn upon a figure 
different to other figures, so tall was it and 
slender, so gracious and, withal, so commanding. 
I had always pictured my favorite queens as being 
very much alike in face and figure — Queen 
Philippa, who begged that the twelve poor men 
should not be hanged at Calais, Queens Anne 
Bullen and Marie Antoinette, who both lost their 
heads so sadly. And, lo and behold! here stood 
my ideal before" me. 

“Father,” I exclaimed, twitching his hand 
eagerly, “look at that lady, father. Isn’t she like 
a queen?” 

My father made no answer, and glancing up at 
him I saw him staring at the stranger like a man 
in a dream. 

“Father,” I whispered, “dost thee know that 
lady?” 

My question was answered without words. The 
stranger’s glance fell upon my father, and she 
flushed and started, smiled and bowed, while he 
did what I had never seen him or any other Friend 
do before; he bowed, and in the act of bowing 
uncovered before her. I think she would have 
spoken had there not arisen a sudden outcry “Take 
your seats! Take your seats, please,” and we 


8o 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


were hurried unceremoniously into an empty car- 
riage. 

“Father,” I exclaimed, greatly impressed by the 
little scene, “is that lady a queen or princess?” 

I could imagine no other reason for raising the 
hat, and, as a matter of fact. Friends never un- 
covered of their own accord, even in the presence 
of royalty, though their hats were invariably re- 
moved for them by some person in attendance 
before they reached the royal presence. There- 
fore I should have known better than to ask as 
I did: “Is she a queen or a princess?” 

“She is Helene de Castelle,” replied my father, 
simply, “a friend of long ago.” 

“The lady Felix Leblond talked about?” 

“I do not know what possible interest Felix 
Leblond can have in the affairs of the Comtesse de 
Castelle.” 

My father spoke sternly and proudly, not a bit 
like a Friend, but rather as I could imagine those 
French nobles called “aristocrats” must have 
spoken when talking about the people whom they 
called “canaille.” I possessed a French history- 
book with illustrations, and the thought crossed 
my mind for the first time how like my father 
would be to the pictures of these same aristocrats 
could his broadcloth have been exchanged for a 
satin or velvet suit, and a three-cornered hat have 
replaced the broad-brimmed Quaker beaver. As 
for the Comtesse de Castelle — well, I supposed 
she was an aristocrat already, and I could not 
imagine that hoops and patches could make her 
one whit more beautiful than she was at present. 

The train whirled us along, and my father sat 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 8i 

silent for the greater part of the journey with a 
newspaper before him, of which I am certain he 
read not one word. 

“Silence,’’ said he presently, arousing me from 
a reverie, in which the Comtesse de Castelle, 
cousin Naomi, Gorley and Marie Antoinette were 
all jumbled together, “Silence, child, I raised my 
hat to Helene de Castelle just now because she is 
probably ignorant of the custom of us Friends, 
and I would not have her suppose me guilty of 
discourtesy.” 

“Are there then no Friends in Paris?” I in- 
quired. 

“I know of none,” replied my father. 

“Thee were not a Friend then when thee lived 
there, father,” I ventured. “Bursfield must have 
seemed strange to thee after Paris.” 

He muttered something about “atonement,” 
and turned over the leaves of his paper, so that 
I did not venture to interrupt him during the rest 
of the journey. 

Cousin Benjamin Robinson was waiting for us 
upon the Gorley platform; he was tall and thin, 
his hair was long and gray, touching his coat 
collar at the back, and he stooped a little, but he 
had the very nicest and kindest face I thought I 
had ever seen, and the moment I met him I knew 
that if cousin Naomi were one little scrap like him 
I shouldn’t mind at all being left alone in Gorley 
with strangers. 

He was sitting on a bench when the train 
stopped, and he didn’t get up for quite a long 
while, in fact not until a porter, recognizing the 
address upon our luggage labels, went up and 


82 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


spoke to him; whereupon he jumped up in a great 
hurry, stared vaguely up and down the platform 
until the same porter came to the rescue and 
pointed us out, whereupon he came forward and 
greeted us with the utmost cordiality. 

“You must have thought me rude,” said he, 
“but I think I have been half asleep. I have been 
sitting on that bench for an hour and a half.” 

“But,” exclaimed my father, “I wrote thee that 
we should arrive by the six-three without fail.” 

“True, true,” assented cousin Benjamin, “it was 
six-three now I come to think of it. But I had 
unfortunately mislaid the letter, and I had it in my 
mind that you were to come by the four-eighteen.” 

At Bursfield letters were never lost, and I stared 
in amazement at cousin Benjamin. 

“As a boy,” he continued, “they used to pin 
pieces of paper upon me when I lost or forgot 
anything. I have frequently worn eight or nine 
during the course of a day. Little Silence, here, 
must take me in hand, for it is quite time I mended 
my ways.” I laughed delightedly, and all this 
time the porter stood patiently beside our pile of 
luggage and awaited instructions. 

“Ah! the luggage,” exclaimed cousin Benjamin, 
when the man rather gruffly asked what was to be 
done with “this here lot.” “Of course you would 
have luggage. I had forgotten about that.” He 
had forgotten to order a fly too; and it was my 
father and the porter who finally decided that a 
hand-truck should convey our boxes and bags to 
“The White Cottage,” cousin Benjamin’s house, 
and that we should all three walk thence from the 
station. “It’s no distance,” explained the porter. 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 


83 


“A very pleasant little walk,” observed cousin 
Benjamin. “Now I come to think of it, I might 
have returned home and come back to meet the 
train, instead of spending practically the whole of 
this lovely afternoon waiting in the station — 
which, as you see, is not beautiful.” 

The station certainly had little to recommend it, 
but within five minutes of leaving it we were in an 
enchanted land. Never had I imagined such 
beauty. The “History of the Fairchild Family” 
had told me about shady lanes with banks covered 
with violets and primroses; it had said not a word 
of chestnut trees laden with ivory and pink 
blossom; of trails of golden laburnum; of lilacs 
purple and white filling the air with fragrance; 
of beech trees whose delicate young leaves looked 
like green lace against the gold of the evening 
sky. There was the sound of birds twittering 
everywhere, and high in the branches above our 
heads the “coo-coo-coroo” of wood-pigeons, and 
then there came another sound: 

“Oh ! What’s that?” I cried eagerly. 

“Bless the child, that’s the cuckoo,” exclaimed 
cousin Benjamin. “You have surely heard the 
cuckoo before to-day.” 

There were no cuckoos in Bursfield, I assured 
him, and asked him if the bird sang always at 
Gorley. 

Cousin Benjamin smiled. “You will have to 
learn that: 


“ ‘In April, come he will. 

In May, he sings all day: 

In June, he changes his tune. 
In July, he’ll fly away.’” 


84 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“I wish it was May for ever and ever/’ I replied 
earnestly. We had reached the churchyard by 
this time, for there Is a path leading through It 
from the village to the river-side, and I thought I 
had come to one of the loveliest spots In the world 
as I looked at the old gray church with Its square 
tower, the great yew-tree, the green graves with 
their simple head-stones, and everywhere a pro- 
fusion of blossom. How different to the Bursfield 
cemetery, which joined the canal and gas-works, 
and which I never passed without shuddering. 
There was a notice-board near the entrance at 
the old lych-gate begging people to pass quietly 
through the churchyard, and accordingly I tip-toed 
my way along the gravel path, never venturing 
upon so much as a whisper, but my heart felt full 
to bursting with a strange kind of happy pain; 
and when, close to the church, we came In full view 
of a May tree covered with pink bloom, I stood 
stockstill, and the tears began to run down my 
cheeks. 

“Why, little one, what’s the matter?” exclaimed 
cousin Benjamin. 

“Silence, child, what alls thee?” cried my 
father. 

“It’s — It’s — so beautiful,” I stammered, sob- 
bing, “and — and I’ve never seen anything beau- 
tiful before.” 

There was a moment’s silence, and then cousin 
Benjamin cleared his throat and blew his nose 
noisily. 

“Wipe those eyes, little one,” said he, patting 
my shoulder. “I can see that we two are going 
to be great friends.” 


AN ENCHANTED LAND 85 

Dear, kind cousin Benjamin. I loved him from 
that moment. 

“This has been a wonderful day,” I observed, 
as I dried my eyes on father’s handkerchief. “I 
am sure we have come to the loveliest place in the 
world, and at the station in London there was the 
beautifullest lady I have ever seen.” 

“Thee must not take too much heed of outward 
things,” observed my father, making an effort to 
be true to Quaker tradition. But he spoke half- 
heartedly. 


CHAPTER IX 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 

“The White Cottage” was a little white-washed 
house quite close to Gorley church, and its garden 
sloped downward to a backwater of the Thames, 
peaceful and still and green. The garden was 
green, too, and all the flowers were white, lilacs 
and snowbells and white-may in the springtime; 
and then in the summer there would be tall 
Madonna lilies, and white roses and creamy 
syringa, while the house itself was smothered in 
white jasmine and roses and clematis. Cousin 
Naomi met us at the wooden garden door, and I 
can best describe her by saying that she exactly 
matched the garden which she loved. She was a 
tiny woman, and her brown bright eyes and 
hooked nose reminded me of the little birds which 
were hopping about everywhere. She looked 
years younger than cousin Benjamin, and her 
hair was brown, the color of the earth, and her 
gown was brown too, made shapeless and baggy 
like the dresses I had seen at the Friends’ Meeting 
in London. Cousin Naomi’s gown was almost 
covered by a green pinafore, and it did so remind 
me of the grass growing on the top of the brown 
soil. I liked it very much, though it looked so 
uncommon; and I liked cousin Naomi, even before 
cousin Benjamin had pushed me forward gently, 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 87 

telling her that “here was a little girl who thought 
Gorley the loveliest place in the world.” 

“We must take her down the river to Hart’s 
Lock Woods,” said cousin Naomi, and then 
pointed to the wooden porch of the cottage where 
a little white ball of a kitten was playing. 

“There is Blanche,” she continued. “You are 
such a famous little French scholar that you will 
easily understand why we have called her by that 
name.” 

I felt too full of happiness to speak, and I 
verily believe that if anyone had told me that I 
had reached heaven I should have been inclined to 
believe it. 

We walked about the garden, and were shown 
the backwater and the river and the white wooden 
Gorley bridge, which you had to pay a penny to 
cross, and which took you to another village al- 
most as pretty as Gorley, a village with a high hill 
all crowned by thick woods; but it seemed to me 
that there were woods everywhere, beautiful, 
tender, green beech woods, reaching right down 
to the river’s brink. 

We did not go into the house until supper was 
ready, and it was not until then that it dawned 
upon me that possibly there were things in Gorley 
of which neither my mother nor Sarah, nor indeed 
any of the Bursfield Friends, would have approved. 
I was, as you may imagine, in no critical frame of 
mind, but I could not help noticing that the chairs 
and tables stood anyhow, that books and papers 
lay littered anywhere, that the carpets were 
ragged, and the white curtains, though spotless, 
were full of holes, as was also the table-linen. At 


88 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Bursfield books were kept in book-cases and papers 
in desks. The table stood in the middle of the 
room, with the chairs ranged against the walls, 
and an arm chair on either side of the fire place, 
while I had known Sarah to spend an entire day 
darning a hole in a carpet and repairing the house- 
linen. And yet, strange to say, the White Cottage 
looked somehow more comfortable than any of 
the houses at Bursfield. 

Cousins Benjamin and Naomi ate nothing which 
had ever been alive, which was a wonderful and 
uncommon thing forty years ago; but my father 
and I had perch, which had been caught that 
morning in the river, and which I enjoyed, though, 
try as I would, I could not think them quite as 
nice as the sole and plaice and halibut out of the 
fishmongers’ shops. 

Also cousin Naomi’s jam was not sweet like 
Sarah’s, owing, she explained, to a little mistake 
last jam-making in the quantity of sugar, so I 
made my supper chiefly upon penny tarts — which 
I enjoyed thoroughly, and of which there was a 
plentiful supply upon the table. I grew to know 
those penny tarts. Whenever it happened, and 
it happened very often, that cousin Naomi forgot 
to order a pudding, or ordered a pudding the 
materials for which were not forthcoming, or that 
one of cousin Benjamin’s new recipes for vege- 
tarian dishes proved a failure, then Eliza, the 
maid, was sent in hot haste to the village shop 
to buy penny tarts, scones and buns, on which 
we lived until cousin Benjamin had the time to 
go to Reading to lay in a fresh supply of groceries. 

His wife could not be prevailed upon to leave 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 


89 


her garden in summer for a single half day; she 
worked in it from morning till night, and her sug- 
gestion of a picnic to Hart’s Lock Woods was a 
piece of self-sacrifice on her part, because she and 
cousin Benjamin lived in the midst of a continual 
picnic at the White Cottage, and never cared to 
make merry away from it. I hope my father 
didn’t think that I parted from him too cheer- 
fully; I should have been happy beyond measure 
could he have stayed with me, and I pitied him be- 
cause he had to leave beautiful Gorley, but I could 
feel no real sorrow when I remembered that I was 
to remain at the White Cottage with kind cousins 
Benjamin and Naomi. 

The old life at Bursfield seemed to fade away 
imperceptibly, and in a very short time I felt as 
though I had lived all my days in Gorley; but I 
think, had Sarah or Rebecca known the kind of 
life I was leading with my cousins, they would 
never have rested until they had, by hook or by 
crook, got me back home again, for I did exactly 
as I liked. 

If I wished to walk in the woods, cousin Ben- 
jamin was always ready to come with me; the 
slightest hint that I wanted to go on the river, 
and he hurried to get out the old boat. There 
was a full moon a night or two after my arrival, 
and I stayed up to see it, and thus got into the way 
of going to bed at what time I liked. I generally 
chose to go late, and then I would oversleep my- 
self in the morning, and my bread and butter and 
milk would be put aside for me until I was pleased 
to come down and take my breakfast. 

Cousin Naomi was always far too busy in the 


90 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


garden to pay much attention to me or to anybody 
else for that matter; besides, she said, young 
people were best left to themselves, and that it 
would do me no harm to run wild all the summer, 
provided I did nothing of which my father would 
disapprove, and that I avoided tumbling into the 
river. I used to enjoy helping her in the garden 
now and then, but it was cousin Benjamin who was 
my real playmate and companion. 

I spent delightful hours with him in the kitchen, 
trying to help him with his vegetable dishes, which 
somehow never tasted as nice as they sounded in 
the cookery book; indeed, some of them were 
really nasty, especially one dish of spring cabbage 
boiled in salad oil which nobody would eat except 
cousin Benjamin himself, and even he was ill after- 
wards, and acknowledged it to be a failure. 

Very often the recipes turned out badly because 
he forgot to put in something necessary, and then I 
would pin a piece of paper to his coat-tails, and he 
would pretend to be furious with me, and race me 
into the garden, up and down and all around (but 
avoiding cousin Naomi’s flower beds) ; and when 
he had caught me would make believe to pull my 
hair and shake me, and I would laugh more 
heartily than I had ever laughed in my life before, 
and then, with sixpence in my hand, I would run 
down to the village for a fresh supply of the penny 
jam tarts, our never failing staniby. 

Eliza, the servant, I did not like. She was a 
girl from the village, and though she did very 
much as she pleased, like everyone else at the 
White Cottage, and my cousins were kindness 
itself to her, she had a very hearty contempt for 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 


91 


them, and would discuss them and their queer 
ways with any tradesman who happened to come 
to the house. 

Eliza was the cause of my falling into one of my 
furies, the third since my tenth birthday. I sat in 
the kitchen one morning playing with Blanche, the 
kitten (Eliza knowing perfectly well I was there) , 
and the butcher came to the door. He didn’t love 
my cousins because, being vegetarians, they bought 
little at his shop, and he began to gossip about 
them with Eliza. 

“Not a bit of a lady,” observed the latter, allud- 
ing to cousin Naomi. “Always trapesing about in 
that garden of hers. A real lady sits in the draw- 
ing-room and does fancy-work.” 

“And look at him,” she continued, “messing 
about in my kitchen, cooking stuff as is only fit for 
the pig-bucket. Disgusting I call it.” 

“A bit gone in the upper-story,” suggested 
the butcher, tapping his forehead — and I un- 
derstood that they were talking of dear Cousin 
Benjamin. I think I was, if possible, more 
angry than when the Frenchman called my father 
a fool. 

“Thee mean, wicked girl,” cried I, picking up 
the kitten and joining the two scandal-mongers at 
the back door. “Thee ought to be put in prison 
for talking like that.” 

“Lor, Miss Silence,” exclaimed Eliza, “we 
weren’t only having a bit of fun ; we didn’t mean 
what we said.” 

“When thy mother was ill,” I continued, 
“Cousin Naomi let thee go out every night to see 
her; and Cousin Benjamin gave thee half a 


92 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


sovereign for her. Oh ! thee Is mean to forget all 
that!” 

Eliza ran to the cupboard, and producing a 
handful of raisins offered them to me in a great 
hurry. But I, mindful of Felix Leblond’s choco- 
lates, refused them. 

“Thee’s giving me raisins, Eliza,” said I, “be- 
cause thee don’t want me to tell what thee’s been 
saying. That’s what father calls hush-money, and 
I don’t want it. Thee needn’t be afraid, I’m not 
a tell-tale, but I don’t like thee, Eliza, and I think 
thee’s mean as mean can be.” 

And the butcher, a vulgar man, greatly relieved 
by my promise of silence, exclaimed enthusiastic- 
ally that “blowed if the little ’un hadn’t pluck.” 
But Eliza and I avoided each other In future. 

The days slipped by like magic, all beautiful, all 
sunny, all alike — except Sunday; and on Sunday 
Cousin Naomi would discard the brown dress and 
green pinafore In favor of an old-fashioned black- 
silk bonnet and gown, and Cousin Benjamin 
would struggle Into a frock-coat and check- 
trousers, and, an ancient silk-hat crowning his long 
grey hair, would escort his wife to Gorley church 
— I needing no second Invitation to come with 
them. There were no Friends In Gorley, conse- 
quently no Meeting-house, and I think that Cousin 
Naomi had conveniently forgotten that once upon 
a time she had been a Quaker, for she never 
“thee’d” and “thou’d” as Cousin Benjamin some- 
times did, and never seemed to care to hear any- 
thing about Bursfield. 

You will be tired by this time of my list of 
“nevers,” but you wouldn’t understand why I 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 


93 


thought Gorley Parish church a perfect West- 
minster Abbey of wonder and beauty unless I 
told you that I had never been in church before, 
never so much as heard an organ, never seen 
painted glass. I was really quite like a little blind 
kitten whose eyes are opened after nine days’ 
darkness, but it seemed as though I had been in 
the dark for ten long years, and that now, for 
the first time, I saw God’s beautiful world and 
some of the wonderful things which He has al- 
lowed man to make and build in order that it may 
be still more lovely. I had never thought of such 
a thing before, but after I came to Gorley I was 
thankful every day that God was no Quaker, for 
I shuddered when I tried to picture a white country 
with every tree and flower growing drab or slate- 
colored. 

We spent, of course, the greater part of Sunday 
morning in church, and it was the custom of 
Cousins Naomi and Benjamin to sleep in the 
garden after an early dinner, because the former 
couldn’t work on Sunday, nor could the latter 
potter about the Cottage, cooking a little, nailing 
up a plant here and there, and generally trying 
to make himself useful. Upon my first two Sun- 
days in Gorley I tried to imitate them, but with 
scant success, and upon my third I wandered away 
upon the banks of the river, wishing, for the 
first time, that I had Harriet Field or any of my 
other school friends with me for company. 

I must have looked a queer little figure strolling 
along the towing path arrayed in all my wedding 
finery, the stone-colored silk and bonnet to match, 
the starched white collar and cuffs. I met several 


94 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


people when I first started, including the vulgar 
butcher with his wife and very fat baby, and they 
all stared and whispered and turned to look after 
me, and though I hated attracting so much atten- 
tion, yet I was so well accustomed to being looked 
at that my walk was not spoilt to any great extent. 

And presently I left the people behind me, also 
the houses, and came to the real country of green 
fields and May-blossom hedges and the river run- 
ning through them like a silver ribbon. It was 
beautiful but shadeless, and the sun beat remorse- 
lessly down upon my gray bonnet, while the silk 
gown was stiff and heavy, therefore I was not 
quite so comfortable as usual, and felt very glad 
when I came to the beginning of a thick beech 
wood, cool and shady; and as I sat down upon a 
mossy bank under a tree I said to myself: “This 
is exactly like the fairy stories Gertrude Poole 
used to tell us in playtime on wet days. How I 
wish they were true, because then I should very 
likely soon see an old witch picking up sticks, or 
a fairy prince or princess, or somebody else in- 
teresting and nice who only appears in story- 
books.” 

A vision of Sarah rose before me, and I made 
haste to turn my best gown up round my waist 
before I settled myself more comfortably among 
the fern, laying aside my close bonnet and wiping 
my warm forehead with my pocket handkerchief. 
It was really very hot. A little rabbit popped out 
of the fern close by me and startled me very much, 
because (I am sure you are quite tired of my list 
of “nevers”) I had never seen a live rabbit before. 
iThe bunny scampered away, and I jumped up, 


DELICIOUS DISCOMFORT 


95 


clutching at a bough of bracken, and there, half 
hidden beneath the fern, lay an open letter, the 
sight of which surprised me far more than the 
appearance of the rabbit, because the letter was 
written in my father’s handwriting. During the 
past ten days I had received three letters from 
Paris, and the last, which had arrived that very 
morning, I had fondly imagined to be reposing in 
the stout and excellent pocket of the silken wed- 
ding garment. How could it have escaped, first 
from the pocket, and, more remarkable still, from 
its envelope? 

I thrust my hand within my dress and drew 
forth the morning’s letter intact. Was this really 
a magic forest? The fourth sheet of the newly 
found letter lay facing me upon my lap, the final 
sheet, because it contained my father’s Christian 
name, signed plainly, “Sylvester.” 

The lines above were written in French. 

“For both our sakes, and for the sake of an- 
other, I must try to forget; but in my dreams, 
darling, I shall remember. A man is not master 
of his dreams.” 

I dropped the paper, my heart beating fiercely 
with a mingled sense of shame and mystery. Here 
was I reading a letter written by my father, cer- 
tainly, but to another person; certainly not in- 
tended for me. Now in our family it had been 
an understood thing that no one pried into an- 
other’s correspondence. Even my own few poor 
little notes, containing invitations from school 
fellows, had been invariably handed to me un- 
opened, and the thought that Felix Leblond had 
considered me capable of reading his miserable 


96 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


papers had lowered him fifty per cent in my esti» 
mation. I took courage presently when I remem- 
bered that reading those few lines had been an 
accident rather than a fault, but I considered that 
if I read another word I should be to blame — in 
the language of Laura Snowden and Company a 
“sneak.’* I had never forgotten that dreadful 
day when I had listened in the alcove at school, 
and to read was surely worse than to listen, yet 
how I longed to turn the pages, to see at least the 
name on the first sheet. 

I resisted temptation, but only by shutting my 
eyes tight and covering the paper with my hand, 
and for a long, long while I sat perfectly still and 
wondered, wondered, wondered. 

The fish splashed in the water hard by, the bees 
hummed around me; it was a sleepy afternoon and 
I wondered whether I were really asleep, whether 
the letter would turn out to be a dream, whether 
the wood were perhaps a tiny bit enchanted. And 
then I opened my eyes to see, bending over me, no 
red-cloaked witch or fairy prince, but a lady all 
dressed in white; hardly a princess but the next 
best thing to it — the beautiful lady of Paddington 
Station whom my father had called Helene, 
Countess of Castelle. 


CHAPTER X 


THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS 

The beautiful lady looked at me with a puzzled 
expression, as if there were something about me 
she couldn’t quite understand, then she looked at 
the letter which I held firmly clutched in my right 
hand. 

“Little girl,” said she, “you have something 
there which I think does not belong to you.” 

The voice matched the face, and the broken 
English sounded pretty In my ears. 

“Then the letter is thine, madame. It was the 
first time I had ever called any lady “madame,” 
but the word seemed to slip out naturally when 
speaking to Helene de Castelle. “I read these 
few lines because I saw my father’s name signed 
underneath,” I continued, pointing to the paper. 
“But then I saw that they could not be intended 
for me and I didn’t read another word.” 

The lady caught her breath with a queer little 
gasp. “So — o! You are then Sylvester Strange- 
ways’ daughter.” 

“Thee did not know me again,” I replied. 
“That is perhaps because I have taken off my 
bonnet. I remembered thee directly I saw thee, 
madame.” 

She sat down beside me on the fern, carelessly, 
as if it did not in the least matter whether her 


98 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


white gown were crushed or not, and I saw that 
the letter had disappeared mysteriously. 

“I saw you with him in London the other day,” 
she exclaimed in a low voice. “He was the same, 
and yet changed somehow.” 

“That is because he is a Friend now,” I replied. 

“A ‘Friend!’ A ‘Friend!’ ” she repeated, shak- 
ing her head. “I am afraid I do not understand, 
my petite.” 

“Friends are different to other people,” I ex- 
plained; “they dress differently and they work 
hard, and don’t have pretty things like thee.” 

“Ah ! Maintenant je comprends !” she answered. 
“ ‘Friends’ are, in fact, like the monks and 
nuns.” 

I told her I didn’t know any monks and nuns. 
“But Friends are not like the monks my history 
tells about,” I added. “Friends get married. 
Some people call them Quakers.” 

“Ah! Quakers! I have heard of Quakers,” 
she replied, and then there was a moment’s silence 
between us. 

“Sylvester Strangeways, your father, used not 
to be a Quaker,” she continued presently. 

“Not when he lived in Paris and knew thee, 
madame. But then he came home to Bursfield, 
and married mother and became a Friend.” 

“He has sometimes spoken of me?” she asked 
me in a low voice. 

I hesitated. “He told me he used to know thee 
when we were in the train together the other day.” 

“He had doubtless forgotten until then,” she 
exclaimed bitterly. 

“No, madame, I am sure he had not forgotten,” 


THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS 99 

I replied decidedly — and she bent over and kissed 
me. 

“Little grey girl, what were you doing asleep 
in these lonely woods?’’ 

“I was not asleep,” I assured her. “I walked a 
long, long way from Gorley, and then I found the 
letter under a fern, and then I wondered if I were 
in an enchanted wood and I shut my eyes and 
thought — and thought, and when I opened them 
thee wert there, madame, just like a Fairy 
Princess, only thee’s a Countess instead.” 

The Fairy Princess laughed aloud, and her 
laugh sounded like silver bells. “So then, ma 
petite, Quaker friends read fairy-tales some- 
times !” 

I shook my head. “Oh! no, but the girls at 
school told them on wet days, and I listened.” 

She kissed me again. “What a quaint little 
grey girl you are 1” she exclaimed, smiling. “Now 
will you come with me in my boat and let me take 
you home to Gorley?” 

“I’d love to come in thy boat,” I replied, “but 
Bursfield is my real home. I am only staying at 
Gorley with my cousins, Naomi and Benjamin, 
while my father is away in Paris.” 

“And your mother?” 

“My mother is dead. She died in February.” 

She did not speak, but I saw her glance at my 
gown, and I flushed hotly. 

“Friends don’t wear mourning,” I explained, an- 
swering her unspoken question. 

She did not mention my father and mother 
again, but she smiled as she watched me carefully 
tying my satin bonnet strings, and then a servant 


100 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


helped us into a little white boat called “The 
Esperance,” and he rowed us back slowly, while 
I chattered of the difference between Bursfield and 
Gorley, and how I loved the country, and how 
kind my cousins, Naomi and Benjamin, were to 
me. 

“I am afraid these kind cousins will be anxious, 
my petite,” suggested the beautiful lady. “They 
will think you are lost.” 

“They will know I am quite safe,” I answered 
confidently. “But is it so very late, madame?” 

“It is past six o’clock.” 

“Yes, it is past six o’clock,” I agreed, with an 
enthusiastic start which nearly upset the boat. 
“The Gorley churchbells begin to ring at six— and 
hark! they are ringing now. Don’t they sound 
beautiful!” 

She smiled, and her smile reminded me of my 
father’s, there was something sad and disap- 
pointed about it. 

“They are the beautifullest bells in the whole 
world, I think,” I continued confidently, “and 
they have been ringing for hundreds and hundreds 
of years. I know what they say, because it is 
written on the biggest of them. Cousin Benjamin 
told me. ‘When I call, come ye to His Temple.’ 
Isn’t that nice, madame?” 

She nodded her head silently. 

“Why, there is Cousin Benjamin walking along 
the towing path,” I exclaimed presently, in ex- 
treme surprise. “He doesn’t often go for a walk 
at this time. I wonder why he is doing so now.” 

“I should think he is probably looking for you,” 
suggested the Countess, and at a word from her 


THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS loi 


the boatman rowed up to the bank. “Cousin 
Benjamin,” I cried, “Cousin Benjamin. Here I 
am. Here I am!” 

Cousin Benjamin was wandering along, glancing 
first over in the direction of Streating Hill, and 
then away across the country toward Gorley 
Heath. He looked very funny, because, though 
he still wore his check Sunday trousers, he had 
changed his best coat for his old house jacket, and 
on the back of it fluttered a large piece of paper 
which I had pinned there the previous day when 
he had forgotten to order a bag of flour in Read- 
ing, and had sent home a stone of currants instead. 
He didn’t seem in the least surprised to find me in 
a stranger’s boat, but came toward us, waving his 
straw wide-awake and beaming genially. 

“We were beginning to get anxious, thy Cousin 
Naomi and I,” announced Cousin Benjamin. 

“I didn’t think thee ever got anxious. Cousin 
Benjamin,” I replied. 

“Only when I have charge of troublesome little 
girls,” he replied affectionately. 

I bethought me of the duty of introduction 
“This is my cousin, Benjamin Robinson, madame,” 
I explained politely: “Cousin Benjamin, this is a 
lady father used to know in Paris before he be- 
came a Friend — Helene, Comtesse de Castelle. Is 
that right?” I inquired in an anxious undertone. 

“Quite right, my petite,” replied the Countess, 
smiling. “But Madame de Castelle will do equally 
well.” 

“I found your little cousin in the woods, mon- 
sieur,” she explained to Cousin Benjamin. “I had 
lost some valuable property and returned to find 


102 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


it there, and to find also this little girl under a 
tree. Eh bien! she says she was not asleep, 
but ’’ 

“I was not asleep,” I assured her earnestly. “I 
was thinking hard and when I think I shut my 
eyes.” 

We landed, Madame de Castelle and I, and 
after she had directed her servant to take the 
boat back alone, and I had unpinned the paper 
from Cousin Benjamin’s coat, we all three strolled 
back to Gorley, and the beautiful lady delighted 
my heart by asking if I might go and visit her 
sometimes at the hotel where she was staying. 

“Your smoky London is stifling,” she explained, 
“therefore I left my brother and came down for a 
fortnight to get a breath of fresh air. But I am 
just a little lonely at the Mansfield Hotel, and I 
should be so glad if you would let the little one 
keep me company sometimes. As she has told 
you, I knew her father long ago.” 

Kind, simple-hearted Cousin Benjamin was only 
too ready to promise anything which would tend 
to cheer Madame de Castelle; and having arrived 
by this time at the gate of the White Cottage he 
insisted upon bringing her into the garden and 
introducing her to Cousin Naomi, who was pacing 
the garden paths and trying hard not to forget 
that it was Sunday and decidedly an unfit time for 
gardening operations. I could see her hands were 
itching to pull up a few weeds and to pluck the 
withered heads from some fading blossoms, but 
she forebore heroically. 

She made no reference to my long absence, 
which I am sure had not troubled her in the least 


THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS 103 


(it took a good deal to trouble Cousin Naomi), 
but she received me with careless kindliness, and 
seemed really pleased to meet the stranger, 
especially when she saw how whole-heartedly the 
latter admired her beautiful garden. She 
promised I might go to the hotel as often as the 
Countess chose, but she would not undertake to 
go herself because, as she explained, she never 
went anywhere. The claims of society had no 
fascination for Cousin Naomi. 

She hospitably invited Madame de Castelle to 
come to the White Cottage when she felt inclined, 
but she did not enthusiastically second Cousin 
Benjamin’s invitation that the Countess should 
stay and have supper with us that evening. There- 
fore, after asking me to visit her upon the next 
afternoon, my beautiful lady departed, escorted 
by Cousin Benjamin, who returned some twenty 
minutes later to find his wife and myself spreading 
a table under a tree in preparation for our even- 
ing meal. 

“Now this is what I call pleasant,” exclaimed 
Cousin Benjamin, beaming and rubbing his hands 
with satisfaction, “this is really delightful. How 
I wish we could have prevailed upon our visitor to 
stay and join us.” 

“I couldn’t press her,” observed Cousin Naomi 
calmly, “because we are only having a ‘staff of 
life’ supper to-night.” 

A “staff of life” supper consisted of bread and 
cheese, and we often had it when all the food in 
the house was exhausted, and especially on Sunday 
nights when even the penny tarts failed, owing to 
the shops being closed. To-night there was no 


104 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


butter, but Cousin Benjamin cut a large slice of 
bread and cheese and began to munch contentedly. 

‘T am sure Madame de Castelle would prefer 
‘staff of life’ in the open to supper in that stuffy 
room at the hotel.” 

“I have never heard that the rooms at the 
Mansfield are stuffy,” protested Cousin Naomi. 

“All rooms are stuffy in May,” insisted Cousin 
Benjamin, and I heartily, though silently, agreed 
with him. 

He continued to eat his “staff of life” thought- 
fully. “Poor young thing! Poor lonely young 
thing!” he exclaimed presently. 

“Are you speaking of Madame de Castelle?” 
inquired Cousin Naomi. “Cannot her husband be 
with her? It is a pity that she should be alone in 
a riverside hotel.” 

“She has been a widow these five years,” replied 
Cousin Benjamin, shaking his head sadly, “she 
told me so as we walked together just now. Poor 
young creature ! It is a hard thing for a woman 
to be left alone in the world without either the 
protection of husband or father. My heart aches 
for her.” 

Half an hour later I carried a candle to my 
room, and producing my desk set about writing 
to my father, and this was the letter which was 
posted to Paris on the following morning : 

“My dear father, 

“I thank thee for the letter which 
1 received safely to-day. I have seen thy friend, 
Madame de Castelle, again. I was thinking in the 
woods this afternoon, and when I opened my eyes 


THE PADDINGTON PRINCESS 105 


she was there beside me. She has asked me to go 
and see her at the Mansfield Hotel, and Cousins 
Naomi and Benjamin say I may go. Cousin Ben- 
jamin is sorry for her because she has no husband. 
He died five years ago. As long as I have thee, 
dear father, I should never want to get married, 
but poor Madame de Castelle has not got a father. 
He is dead, too, so she is lonely. I hope thee will 
not mind me calling her ‘Madame.’ I think she 
would be surprised if I called her by her plain 
name, and I remembered that thee took off thy 
hat to her at the station and I thought thee will 
understand. 

“Cousins Naomi and Benjamin do not know I 
am writing or they would send their love, and I 
am, dear father, 

“Thy loving little daughter, 

“Silence Strangeways.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE OGRE 

I was sorry I had posted my letter in a hurry, 
because such a strange thing happened upon the 
Monday afternoon that I was obliged to spend the 
whole of the evening writing a second letter to my 
father. 

At half past one o’clock that same afternoon I 
looked at my watch, and I continued to look at it 
every five minutes for the next hour and a half, 
when I went to my room, washed my hands and 
face, brushed my hair, and changed my gown 
and pinafore for my best summer gray-stuff and 
bonnet. 

It was by this time five and twenty minutes to 
four, therefpre I set forth for the Mansfield 
Hotel, walking very slowly and timing myself to 
arrive exactly at a quarter to four o’clock. It 
was a beautiful day, (all the days at Gorley 
seemed beautiful to me, and yet I think we must 
have had rain on some of them, because I dis- 
tinctly remember on more than one occasion notic- 
ing Cousin Naomi wearing a shiny black mackin- 
tosh, which she would surely never have put on 
in fine weather) . But this particular Monday was 
certainly fine, and the man who received me at the 
door of the hotel told me that Madame la Com- 
tesse was in the garden, and offered to take me to 


THE OGRE 


107 


her there. I don’t think he could ever have seen 
a Friend before, he looked at me so curiously, and 
I, for my part, cast interested glances at him, for 
I had never seen a man with nearly the whole of 
his waistcoat stiff and white and shiny like his 
collar, and wearing a funny little white bow-tie 
to match. 

He was a very polite man. 

“What name, miss?” said he. 

“Silence Strangeways,” said I. 

“Follow me, miss,” said he, and in the garden, 
where Madame de Castelle was lying in a long 
chair with her eyes closed, he bowed and an- 
nounced, loudly and impressively : 

“Miss Silence Strangeways.” 

I wished I were not quite so small. 

The sound of his voice roused Madame de Cas- 
telle, and she sat up, pushed back her curls, and 
holding out her hand drew me toward her. 

“I am glad you are come to cheer me, little 
one,” said she. “It has been a long troublesome 
day.” 

“Art thee ill, madame?” I enquired anxiously. 
“Thee don’t look a bit like thee did yesterday. 
Thy cheeks are pale and thine eyes have black 
marks round them.” 

She lay back among her cushions sighing. “I 
have the migraine,” she replied, “it will be better 
presently.” 

“That is what mother said,” I exclaimed, “and 
she got worse instead of better, and in five 
days she died. Oh! madame, please, please be 
careful.” 

She smiled faintly. “I don’t think my com- 


io8 LITTLE GREY GIRL 

plaint is very serious, Silence. I suppose your 
dear mother was suffering from chill or fever?’* 

I told her my mother had died from inflamma- 
tion of the lungs. 

“La malheureuse,” she exclaimed compassion- 
ately. “There is however no need to trouble 
about me, ma petite, la migraine is not alarming.” 

She took my hand and gazed long and earnestly 
at me. “I suppose you are like your mother, 
Silence?” 

I sighed. “Thee thinks that, madame, because 
my father is handsome and I am so plain, not one 
little bit like him.” 

The beautiful lady flushed. “I think you have 
a dear little face. Silence.” 

“But it is a plain one,” I replied. “Even Har- 
riet Field thought so, and Laura Snowden said it 
did not matter so much for me because I have to 
wear such ugly clothes.” 

“Who are they then, these girls, Harriet and 
the other one?” exclaimed Madame de Castelle 
indignantly. “They must be without the good 
manners or the kind hearts to talk so.” 

“They were at school with me, and Harriet was 
kind,” I answered. “But thee were speaking of 
dear mother, madame. I am not like her, either. 
She was nice-looking — not beautiful like thee, but 
tall and fair and pale. There is a window in 
Gorley church with Mary, the mother of Jesus 
Christ, painted in it, and whenever I look at it 
it reminds me of mother.” 

“It was sad for you to lose her,” exclaimed 
Madame de Castelle in a low tone. 

“It was dreadful,” I agreed. “Poor father 


THE OGRE 


109 


tried so hard to cure her. He sent for the great- 
est doctor in London, Sir Spencer Conyngham, 
but it was no use, he could not do her any good.” 

We were silent for awhile, and then the polite 
servant reappeared, followed by a second bearing 
a tray of cake and lemonade, and I proceeded to 
make an excellent meal, the pleasure of which 
was only spoilt by Madame de Castelle’s lack of 
appetite. She drank some lemonade thirstily, but 
to my distress only crumbled the piece of cake on 
the plate by her side. 

“Thee must be ill, madame, indeed thee must be 
ill,” I exclaimed in genuine dismay. I had had so 
little experience of sickness, except in the case of 
my mother, that I verily believed that anyone pale 
or ailing was almost bound to die as she had died, 
and it was terrible to think of losing my beautiful 
lady as soon as I had found her — or, rather, she 
had found me. 

“It is the migraine,” she replied, “that and 
worry. Trouble makes people pale sometimes. 
Silence, women especially.” 

“Is there nothing I can do for thee?” 

She patted my hand gently. “Kind little Grey 
Girl!” She closed her eyes for a moment. “I 
should be glad of some eau-de-Cologne,” said 
she presently. “I left the flask in the hotel 
and ” 

“I will fetch it at once,” I cried, starting up 
eagerly. 

“You will find it on the table in my sitting- 
room,” she explained. “Number seven is painted 
on the door outside, but if you cannot find it ask 
the waiter. The room is empty at present.” 


no 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


I flew across the strip of garden, and shy of 
questioning the waiter I took careful stock of each 
door until I stood before number seven, at which I 
knocked lightly, as a mere matter of form, because 
had not Madame de Castelle assured me that I 
should find the room empty? 

But to my surprise a man’s voice bade me “come 
in,” in French; and pushing open the door I ad- 
vanced a little shyly and uncertainly. 

“Madame de Castelle wished me — ” I began in 
French, and then stopped short in the utmost 
amazement, not to say dismay. For there were 
two men in the room, the one a stranger, short, 
slight and fair, with delicate features, gentle blue 
eyes and a weak mouth, only partly concealed by 
a neat mustache ; the second needs no description, 
for he was none other than my father’s manager, 
and my old enemy, the Frenchman, Felix Leblond. 
He was lounging at his ease in an arm-chair, a half 
empty glass by his side, but as soon as he caught 
sight of me, oh ! what a change ! His face turned 
a horrid whitey-green color, his jaw dropped, 
and as he got up very slowly one could see all his 
limbs trembling, like the man’s in the Bible who 
was affected with palsy. He stood there staring at 
me for a moment, and then he clutched at his 
glass, but so feebly that it slipped out of his hand 
and broke in pieces on the floor. 

“Good heavens! Leblond, what ails you? You 
are ill!” exclaimed the stranger, hastily crossing 
the room. 

“I am ill — in pain,” gasped the Frenchman, 
sinking into the chair again and groaning heavily. 

I seized the flask, and drenching my handker- 


THE OGRE 


III 


chief with eau-de-Cologne wiped the sick man’s 
forehead and held it to his nostrils. I hadn’t 
much experience of eau-de-Cologne, but Madame 
de Castelle wanted it for “migraine,” and I 
thought perhaps the complaint was catching, and 
that Felix Leblond had it in an aggravated form. 

The strange gentleman meanwhile pulled vio- 
lently at the bell, and desired the man who an- 
swered it to go at once — a I’instant — for the near- 
est doctor. He spoke in French, which language 
the waiter evidently did not understand, for he 
looked at me in considerable perplexity. 

“Is the gentleman faint, miss?” said he. “Shall 
I bring brandy?” 

“His friend says thee must go for the doctor 
without delay,” I counseled him, and he turned 
and went immediately. 

A moment later a stout lady in black, who I 
think belonged to the hotel, hurried into the room, 
also Madame de Castelle’s French maid and a 
foreign man-servant. The two latter chattered 
and gesticulated without being of the slightest use. 
The stout lady tried to force brandy between the 
sick man’s teeth. He lay quietly now, and his 
face had lost that ghastly color, but it neverthe- 
less looked gray and old. I continued to mop his 
brow assiduously, explaining, in answer to the 
stout lady’s questioning, how the attack had come 
about. 

“It is to be hoped he will get over it,” said she, 
“he looks bad enough at present.” 

“But thee surely don’t think he will die?” I 
exclaimed i^ consternation. 

She told me she hoped not, because a death was 


II2 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


a very awkward thing to happen in a hotel, which 
struck even me, a child, as a most callous and un- 
christian way of looking at matters. Felix Le- 
blond, however, had no intention of dying. As 
though in answer to his friend’s repeated ques- 
tions as to how he felt now, he struggled to a 
sitting position, smiled faintly, and took a long 
sniff at my dripping handkerchief. When the doc- 
tor came in, five minutes later, he looked infinitely 
better, and announced that he stood in no need of 
medical attention. 

“Thee is better now,” I told him, “but thee 
should tell the doctor how ill thee has been, and 
let him give thee some medicine to do thee good.” 
I had never seen such suffering before, and all my 
resentment was merged in a great pity for the 
Frenchman. 

“Ain’t she old-fashioned!” exclaimed the stout 
lady, aside. 

“You seem a very sensible little girl,” observed 
the doctor. “May I ask if you are any relation of 
this gentleman’s?” 

“Felix Leblond is my father’s manager,” I an- 
swered simply, and the Frenchman bit his lip and 
shot a curious glance at me, as though he would 
rather I had not spoken. 

“Mademoiselle is too kind,” he exclaimed, ris- 
ing; “everybody is too kind,” he continued, with a 
comprehensive wave of his hand round the room. 
“There is not the slightest need, monsieur, for me 
to avail myself of your valuable services. The 
heat overcame me, and, as you see, I am at pres- 
ent completely recovered.” 

“Of course, it must be as you please, monsieur,” 


THE OGRE 


113 

replied the doctor, pronouncing the word **moun- 
seer.” He bowed stiffly to Felix Leblond and the 
strange French gentleman, and then he took hold 
of my hand and held it for a moment. 

“Didn’t I see you in church on Sunday?” said 
he. 

“I saw thee,” I answered. “Thee carried 
round a plate, and people put money into it. I 
was with my Cousins, Benjamin and Naomi 
Robinson.” 

“I shall ask them to bring you to see me,” said 
the doctor. 

“I thank thee for thy kind invitation, and it 
will give me much pleasure to come,” I replied 
politely, quoting from the invariable reply I had 
been taught to send in answer to letters of invita- 
tion received at Bursfield. 

His eye twinkled, and he turned and left the 
room rather hastily, followed by the landlady and 
servants. 

Left alone, the strange gentleman glanced from 
myself to Felix Leblond in some perplexity, but 
the latter, apparently quite recovered, stepped 
forward and introduced his friend in fine 
style. 

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “allow me to present 
Monsieur de Briennais : Monsieur — Mademoi- 
selle Silence Strangeways.” 

“I am charmed to meet mademoiselle,” ex- 
claimed the stranger, bowing low, just as if I were 
grown up ; but I thought he looked more puzzled 
than ever. 

“I came to get Madame de Castelle’s eau-de- 
Cologne,” I explained in French. “She has the 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


1 14 

migraine, and she told me this room would be 
empty.” 

“You are then a friend of Helene’s — of my 
sister’s?” he enquired, bowing again, and smiling 
very pleasantly. 

“My father was her friend long ago,” I 
answered. “His name is Sylvester Strange- 
ways.” 

Monsieur de Briennals made no answer to that, 
but he shot a very curious glance at me, and then 
he turned to Felix Leblond. 

“You are really better, mon ami?” 

“Perfectly well, mon cher Antoine. I have 
felt a little faint all day — this excessive heat, 
you know — and the sudden appearance of made- 
moiselle ” 

“I saw thee felt very surprised,” I Interposed. 

“I suggest,” continued Felix Leblond hastily, 
“that we all adjourn to the garden. It will be 
cooler there.” 

“And madame has waited all this time for her 
eau-de-Cologne,” I cried in dismay. “Do let us 
go quickly.” 

Monsieur de Briennals led the way, but Felix 
Leblond hung back and caught eagerly at my 
sleeve. “There is no need,” he began in Eng- 
lish, and in a low tone, “there is no need, made- 
moiselle, for you to mention that I was Monsieur 
— your papa’s manager.” 

“But what can I say?” I asked him: “it is the 
truth.” 

“As a matter of fact,” he continued, “I am no 
longer associated with your papa’s business. I 
should not care for Monsieur de Briennals and his 


THE OGRE 


115 

sister to know that I was but a manager/’ he 
added frankly. 

‘‘But what can I do?” I exclaimed in dismay. 
“I don’t wish to displease thee, Felix Leblond, 
when thee has been so ill, but if I am asked I must 
speak the truth.” 

He bit his lip. “As you please,” he exclaimed, 
sourly. “I suppose it is too much to ask for con- 
sideration from you.” 

I felt really unhappy. The sight of the French- 
man’s sufferings had melted my heart toward him 
as nothing else could have done. “I don’t want to 
do thee a bad turn, really I don’t,” I exclaimed, 
“but thee surely needn’t be ashamed of working 
for my father. He told me how clever thee wert 
in business.” 

This little compliment left Felix Leblond quite 
unmoved. 

“Did he, indeed!” he exclaimed with a sneer. 
“Eh bienl mademoiselle, you will do entirely as 
you choose, but you know my wishes.” 

We had reached the garden by this time, and it 
was only the remembrance of the Frenchman’s 
grey, haggard face and trembling hands which 
prevented me disliking him more than ever. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 

Madame de Castelle had heard nothing of the 
disturbance. She had fallen into a doze as soon 
as I had left her, and consequently had missed 
neither myself nor the eau-de-Cologne. Her 
brother woke her up and gave a dramatic descrip- 
tion of what had happened; Felix Leblond gave a 
second account of his symptoms during the day, 
and my beautiful lady, touched by his look of 
illness, was anxious to send for smelling salts, 
tisane and a host of other remedies. 

But the invalid would have none of them. He 
thanked madame a hundred, nay a thousand times ; 
but he professed himself quite well again, and said 
that all he needed was repose. So Monsieur de 
Briennais made him comfortable in an arm-chair 
with a cushion, we all sat down around him, and 
then began such a wretched stiff twenty minutes 
as I had never before experienced. 

In the confusion Monsieur de Briennais had 
evidently forgotten that his friend and I had 
known each other quite well. At all events he 
made no reference to it, and I sat bolt upright 
in my chair feeling as though I were bearing the 
weight of some guilty secret. Also I felt that 
Monsieur de Briennais did not care about my 
being there, because he did not smile or look pleas- 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 


117 

antly at me again as he had done in the hotel 
sitting-room, but sat talking to his sister, as though 
he were thinking of something else all the time. 
She, for her part, kept glancing at Felix Leblond 
in a funny, nervous way, and he didn’t seem 
happy, either, for he kept fidgeting in his chair, 
moving from one position to another, and shoot- 
ing sharp glances at all three of us in turn. 

I began to meditate as to the etiquette of 
leavetaking. In spite of my beautiful lady I did 
long to be back at the White Cottage ; but at Burs- 
field I had always been taught to wait until my 
hostess had dismissed me, or Sarah had come to 
fetch me. Cousin Naomi had said nothing about 
sending Eliza for me, and I had forgotten to ask 
her whether the French were likely to have the 
same rules as our Bursfield Friends. 

I puzzled, too, as to how I could be polite and 
truthful at the same time. “I thank thee for in- 
viting me, and for giving me a pleasant time.” 
That had always been my prescribed form of 
leavetaking, but how could I say the last part of 
the sentence to-day? Why, the afternoon had 
been one long disappointment, what with sickness 
and Felix Leblond with his sly looks and uncom- 
fortable secrets. Everything seemed tangled up 
together, and when the time came for “good-bye” 
I knew not what to say. 

It was the dreariest half-hour I had spent since 
coming to Gorley. But suddenly the waiter came 
toward us, and behind him peered the simple 
kindly face of Cousin Benjamin, and in a trice all 
was right with the world again. 

I slipped from my chair and ran to him joy- 


ii8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


fully. “Cousin Benjamin, how glad I am to sec 
thee! Art thee come to take me home?’’ 

“If thee has been making such a noise all the 
afternoon thy friends will be glad to get rid of 
thee,” exclaimed Cousin Benjamin, pretending to 
frown severely. 

“I haven’t made a scrap of noise until now, 
truly. Cousin Benjamin,” I assured him. “But 
I was so glad to see thee, I couldn’t help 
screaming.” 

My beautiful lady seemed glad to see him too, 
and Felix Leblond struggled out of his chair and 
greeted him quite cordially. Monsieur de Brien- 
nais appeared to be the only one not quite satisfied, 
but he too was polite, though, knowing no Eng- 
lish, he was unable to exchange a word with 
Cousin Benjamin. 

Of course the latter had to be told the history 
of the Frenchman’s sudden illness, and he was 
very greatly concerned, and seemed to take it 
quite as a personal matter that the Gorley sun- 
shine should hurt anyone. 

He advised the invalid to wear just such an- 
other straw wide-awake as his own, and Felix 
Leblond encouraging him by promising to think 
of it, he began to give a great deal more good 
advice, all about eating no meat and drinking 
herb tea, etc., etc. And, in the meantime. Mon- 
sieur de Briennais leant over his sister’s chair, and 
“Helene,” said he in French, and in a low tone, 
“Helene, what has induced you to invite that child 
to visit you?” 

And my beautiful lady answered in the 
same low voice. “Because that child is Syl- 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 


119 

vaster Strangeways’ daughter, the man whom 
long ago I loved better than anyone else in the 
world.” 

“Monsieur — Madame,” I stammered, scarlet 
to the tips of my ears, “I am very sorry, but 
I can’t help hearing, and — and I understand 
French.” 

They both blushed too, and monsieur apolo- 
gized profusely, while madame drew me to her, 
and kissed me tenderly. “Never mind, mon en- 
fant,” said she, “you did but hear the truth. I 
have always thought of your father as the noblest 
of men.” 

Those were her very words, and yet Felix Le- 
blond was ashamed of being my father’s manager. 

He wrung my hand at parting, and spoke to me 
very gently. 

“Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, “I am truly 
grateful to you for your kind attention and sym- 
pathy this afternoon, also for your silence con- 
cerning the other matter. It is a little secret be- 
tween us, n’est-ce pas?” 

I felt uncomfortable because I had not the 
slightest wish to share secrets with the Frenchman, 
and I am afraid my leave-taking was awkward 
and ungracious in a marked degree. 

Cousin Benjamin was very cordial. His kindly 
face beamed as he invited everybody to come to 
the White Cottage as often as possible, and he 
especially promised Felix Leblond a bottle of 
home-made medicine, which he assured him would 
do him all the good in the world. 

“A very clever fellow that,” observed Cousin 
Benjamin, in allusion to the Frenchman, as we 


120 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


wended our way homeward. “He saw eye to 
eye with me as to the healing value of herb-tea.” 

“Father says he is clever,” I agreed. 

“What! He is a friend of thy father’s?” 

There was surely no need to hide the truth 
from Cousin Benjamin. 

“He is father’s French manager,” I replied 
simply. 

The old man stood stockstill in the road, and 
stared at me in real distress. “Why, Silence, how 
came thee not to tell me? Of course, I should 
have given any friend of thy father’s a special in- 
vitation. Thee should have spoken up and told 
me the truth, child!” 

“He might have spoken for himself,” I re- 
torted, hurt by the injustice of this mild reproof, 
the first I had received from Cousin Benjamin. 
“He asked me to say nothing about it, because he 
didn’t want Madame de Castelle and her brother 
to know he is but a manager.” 

My cousin wrinkled his forehead in perplexity. 

• “There must surely be some mistake,” said he, 
after a pause. “He was ill, child, and didn’t 
know what he was saying. A sensible man would 
never give way to such false, foolish pride, and 
I am sure this Mr. er — what is his name? — is 
sensible.” 

“He was certainly very sick,” I answered doubt- 
fully; “but he said it as if he meant it.” 

“One says strange things in sickness. I dare- 
say he spoke in delirium. I must certainly send 
that bottle of herb-tea without delay.” 

It was a great relief to write a long, long let- 
ter to my father that evening, telling him the 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 


I2I 


whole story of the afternoon, and asking him what 
I ought to have done under the circumstances. I 
had tried to tell Cousin Benjamin that neither 
father nor I cared for Felix Leblond, but he had 
seemed so distressed at the idea of disliking any- 
one that I began to feel quite ashamed of myself, 
especially when he told me that “we must strive 
to love our fellow-creatures, little Silence. They 
are all worthy our affection, and from his man- 
ner I cannot but think that this Felix Leblond is 
a very good sort of man.” 

Cousin Naomi had little to say upon the sub- 
ject, contenting herself with observing “that It 
never did to judge others uncharitably, though 
doubtless the likes and dislikes of a little girl of 
ten were of small account in the eyes of a grown 
man like Felix Leblond.” 

This speech of Cousin Naomi’s brought back 
very forcibly the training of my mother and 
Sarah, and I felt so snubbed that I did not dare 
say another word against the Frenchman. He did 
not delay his thanks for the bottle of herb-medi- 
cine and the Invitation which accompanied It, for 
that same evening he walked to the White Cot- 
tage while I was toiling over my letter, and spent 
a long while In the garden with my cousins. I did 
not hear of his visit until next morning, when 
Cousin Benjamin told me, not without a trace of 
reproof in his manner, that Felix Leblond had 
spoken of my father and me with the utmost kind- 
liness, and that it was business considerations only 
which made him anxious to conceal his connection 
with my father. 

“I can quite understand his position,” con- 


•122 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


eluded Cousin Benjamin. “He said to me last 
night: ‘As a man of the world, my dear Monsieur 
'Robinson, you will of course understand that a 
little diplomacy is often necessary when winding 
up a connection with one business in favor of 
another more lucrative !’ ’’ 

Those, I think, were the exact words. Cousin 
Benjamin repeated them several times, so it was 
easy for me to learn them by heart; and though 
I did not know what “a man of the world” might 
be, I was sure it was something very nice, because 
my cousin rubbed his hands and looked so ex- 
tremely pleased at being called so. 

“Did he say what his new business was?” I 
ventured timidly. 

“Something very lucrative, depend upon it,” 
replied Cousin Benjamin; “and though I set little 
store upon mere gold and silver, yet I am fully 
aware that in this world they must be taken into 
due account. I spoke to Monsieur Leblond about 
some little money matters of my own, which have 
been troubling me a trifle lately, and from his 
advice I have come to the conclusion that he is a 
very sensible business-man.” 

“Father said that too,” I answered. 

“And he was right,” exclaimed Cousin Benja- 
min, looking pleased. “I am sure Sylvester 
Strangeways will feel the loss of him; he is cer- 
tainly a clever man.” 

“He admired the garden,” announced Cousin 
Naomi. “I hope he will come and see it again, 
for the shower last night has brought out the roses 
beautifully.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 

Felix Leblond did come again very soon. He 
called at the White Cottage that same evening, 
and under his arm he carried a large brown-paper 
parcel, which he offered me with an ingratiating 
smile, and a low bow. 

“A volume of fairy-tales,” he explained. “I 
telegraphed to London for them this morning. I 
wished to make mademoiselle some trifling return 
for her goodness yesterday.” 

I remembered what my father had said con- 
cerning the chocolates, and hung back awkwardly. 
“Thee is very kind,” I blurted forth, “but father 
doesn’t want me to take presents from thee, Felix 
Leblond.” 

The Frenchman smiled patiently. “I think, did 
your papa know how kind you were to me yester- 
day, he would allow me to offer you this little 
present.” 

He slipped the brown paper from the book as 
he spoke, and I saw it was a beautiful edition of 
“Hans Andersen’s Fairy-Tales.” Some of the 
girls at school had possessed copies of these sto- 
ries, but not one of them such a splendid book as 
this. My soul grew sick with longing, but I turned 
away resolutely. 


124 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“It is a beautiful book and I thank thee, but I 
mustn’t take it.” 

“But if your father knew all the circumstances, 
I think he would be pleased for you to have this 
nice book,” suggested Cousin Naomi. 

Everybody seemed to be against me, and my 
eyes filled with tears. “Father said the chocolates* 
were ‘hush-money,’ ” I sobbed. “He told me he 
would not have let me take them from thee had 
he known.” 

My cousins looked mystified, but Felix Leblond 
turned scarlet. “Of course, I do not wish to force 
my gifts — ” he was beginning, when Cousin Ben- 
jamin cut him short. 

“I have it,” he cried joyfully. “Our friend, 
monsieur, is truly generous, but our little Silence 
is in the right to obey her father. She shall write 
to him this very evening and ask his leave to ac- 
cept the book, and then everyone’s conscience will 
be clear.” 

“The child is spending a fortune on postage 
stamps,” objected Cousin Naomi. “She has writ- 
ten to Paris three or four times during the last 
week.” 

“A fig for postage stamps,” exclaimed Cousin 
Benjamin, “she must write at once, and, with 
monsieur’s kind permission, I will take charge 
of the book until Sylvester sends his answer.” 

He sat in the garden chatting confidentially with 
his visitor for the best part of an hour, and it was 
not until after the latter had said good-night and 
taken his departure that I enquired whether he 
had mentioned Madame de Castelle. 

My cousin shook his head gravely as he told me 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 


125 


that “mounseer” had reported madame as being 
far from well. She had wished to see me that 
day, but her brother had urged her to keep quiet, 
and Cousin Benjamin entirely agreed with “moun- 
seer” that, even supposing I received an invitation 
to the Mansfield Hotel during the next few days, 
it would be better, for the sake of Madame la 
Comtesse’s health, to decline it. 

I had seen enough of Felix Leblond at Bursfield 
to know that this explanation meant that he wished 
me to see as little as possible of my beautiful lady. 
It was of course no good my saying so to Cousin 
Benjamin, but I wished and wished with my whole 
heart that the Frenchman had never come to Gor- 
ley. It had been a struggle, I admit, to refuse 
the beautiful fairy story-book, which Cousin Ben- 
jamin had placed under lock and key in the un- 
tidy little room he called his “study,” but my 
father’s wishes and my deep distrust and dislike 
of Felix Leblond had enabled me to successfully 
resist temptation. The next morning fresh temp- 
tation came in my way, and I am sorry to say I 
was without the strength to overcome it. 

I came downstairs to breakfast and found a 
letter, bearing the Bursfield post-mark (also a 
parcel), lying upon the table, and both addressed 
to me. My cousins had already finished their 
breakfasts and gone out into the garden, so I had 
the room to myself, and I tore open the letter with 
a certain amount of joyful anticipation, for it was 
exciting to hear from any stranger — my father, 
so far, having been my only correspondent. 

Alas for anticipation I As I read on I was con- 
scious only of a growing sense of disappointment 


126 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


and resentment, for the letter was from Sarah, 
»nd the contents were as follows : 

“Dear Silence: 

“We were glad — Rebecca and me — to receive 
thy letter, and to learn that thee is well in health 
and happy with thy cousins at Gorley. 

“We are well and the cat also, and yesterday I 
met thy friend, Harriet Field’s mother, who asked 
after thee very kindly, and sent her love and bade 
me tell thee that Harriet is getting over the fever, 
and is peeling nicely. 

“I hope that thee fails not to do thy needlework 
every day, and that thee is making good progress 
with it. 

“Thy hair is doubtless growing nicely by this 
time, and I have made thee six caps, which thee 
will receive at the same time as this letter. The 
other half dozen will be sent later, and I should 
think, as Gorley is without dirt and smoke, it will 
do if thee changes three times a week. But thy 
cousin will settle what is right. 

“Rebecca sends her love, and so do I, and we 
miss thee sorely, dear Silence, and the house is 
quiet without thee. God bless thee. l am, 

“Thy loving and faithful servant, 

“Sarah Bridges.” 

“P. S . — We are glad to hear from thy father 
that he is well.” 

The parcel, of course, contained the half dozen 
caps, Sarah’s handiwork. 

I blush to admit that I felt not the slightest gra- 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 


127 


titude, although it was plain to be seen that the 
work must have taken the whole of Sarah’s spare 
time since we left Bursfield, and I should have 
remembered that every stitch had been set with a 
great deal of love and devotion. 

There were very many stitches, for the caps 
were large and ample, concealing the hair back 
and front, fitting well over the ears, and secured 
under the chin with hemmed strings. Intended of 
course to be tied In a neat bow. 

My hair, as Sarah had suggested, was growing 
nicely, and even showed a disposition to curl, but 
straight or curly would not matter much, once it 
was tucked away under the orthodox white-linen 
Quaker head-covering. 

I tried one of them on half-heartedly before my 
little looking-glass, and then, after a single glance, 
I plucked it off and thrust it, together with the 
other five. Into the depths of my trunk, my con- 
science pricking me dreadfully the while. 
Through that day and the days following I walked 
heavily, the bearer of a guilty secret, and I felt 
that I was quite unworthy of Sarah’s kindness, and 
of such a loving affectionate letter. 

I did not see my beautiful lady for quite a long 
while. Felix Leblond came twice to the White 
Cottage and had long talks with Cousin Benjamin 
and said what a lot of good the herb-medicine had 
done him, and how much he enjoyed my cousin’s 
vegetable dishes. He looked quite well again, but 
he gave a poor account of Madame de Castelle, 
and he said she was keeping very quiet at the 
hotel. I could give him no report as to the fairy 
story-book because I had only received one short 


128 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


note from my father since Sunday, telling me he 
had gone on business to Lyons, but hoped to be 
back in Paris by the week-end, when he should 
doubtless find some letters from me awaiting him. 

It was upon the Friday afternoon that I came 
face to face with my beautiful lady upon Gorley 
Bridge. 

“Oh, madame,” cried I, embracing her joyfully, 
“how glad I am to see thee again !” 

“Little grey girl,” said she, “why didn’t you 
come to the hotel? I have been expecting you 
every day.” 

“Because Felix Leblond said thee were not well 
enough to see visitors,” I answered glibly. 

She flushed and bit her lip. “I wish Monsieur 
Leblond would mind his own business. My health 
can be no concern of his.” 

“Don’t thee like him?” I enquired. “My 
father doesn’t, and I don’t either ; only my cousins 
like him, and they like everybody.” 

“But what can you know or Syl — your papa 
either — of Felix Leblond?” she exclaimed. 

“I forgot,” I stammered, “he told me not to 
tell, but I didn’t promise. Father has his busi- 
ness in Paris as well as in Bursfield, and Felix 
Leblond is his manager.” 

Madame de Castelle clasped her hands. “I am 
so thankful,” she cried. “I was afraid — ^Ah! but 
I am indeed thankful I” 

“He wants to leave father,” I explained, “be- 
cause he doesn’t like being a manager. Father 
says that in France people like Felix Leblond don’t 
have to do with such as thee, madame.” 

“That is true,” she answered thoughtfully. “I 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 


129 


have often been grieved and surprised that An- 
toine — ” she checked herself hastily. “But to 
know that he is with your father makes all the 
difference,” she added: “ah! but I am truly 
thankful.” 

“Don’t thee tell him I told unless thee’s 
obliged,” I urged her; “he was so angry when I 
said I could not tell thee a lie if thee asked me 
about him.” 

“He is not a nice man,” she answered, “and to 
think that I was actually afraid of him! Little 
grey girl, I am glad to have met you ; and now let 
us sit down and talk of pleasant things.” 

So we sat down by the river side, and she talked 
to me of Paris, and of someone whom she seemed 
to love called “Valentin:” and when I enquired 
concerning this Valentin she told me that he was 
her stepson, for her husband had been married 
before he met her, and his wife had died when 
Valentin was born fourteen years ago. 

“He is a dear boy,” said my beautiful lady, 
“and I should like you to know him. Silence. You 
must come to Paris some day and see him ; at pres- 
ent he is at school.” 

I was silent, pondering over what Madame le 
Comtesse had told me about this stepson of four- 
teen with the beautiful name — “Valentin de Cas- 
telle.” How splendid it sounded ! The prospect 
of visiting Paris seemed so remote as to be hardly 
worth the discussion. 

It was not until we parted that she told me it 
was really good-bye. She was going to London 
the next morning, for her brother wished her to 
be there with him, and they had decided to leave 


130 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Gorley in such a hurry that she would have no 
time to see my cousins, to whom she bade me give 
her kind remembrances. 

“I am sorry thee is going,” I answered sadly. 
“If I had known I would have come to see thee 
every single day.” 

We had reached the hotel by this time, and she 
stooped and kissed me tenderly. “Good-bye, little 
grey girl. Don’t look so sad. We shall meet 
again.” 

“Dost thee really and truly think so, madame?” 

“Really and truly, cherie.” 

But we little thought when or how. 

I felt very sad as I walked home, and I was by 
no means best pleased when Felix Leblond joined 
me in the green lane leading to the White Cottage. 

He informed me that he had seen me by the 
river with Madame de Castelle, but that he had 
not wished to interrupt a pleasant tete-a-tete. 
Since then he had seen my cousins and was just 
coming away from the White Cottage. 

I had nothing to say to all this, but I hoped 
silently that he would not ask me if I had told 
Madame de Castelle that he was my father’s 
manager. 

“I am glad to meet you, mademoiselle,” 
he continued, “because I wished to have a 
few words with you before I leave Gorley to- 
morrow.” 

“Thee is going with Madame de Castelle?” I 
asked him. 

He told me “yes,” and added, after a moment’s 
pause, “Monsieur de Briennais is anxious that his 
sister should see no more of you.” 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 


131 

“Why, what have I done?” I exclaimed in 
alarm. 

“You are your father’s daughter,” replied the 
Frenchman. 

“But what has father done?” I asked, this time 
with indignation. 

Felix Leblond shrugged his shoulders. “You 
are a trifle young to discuss such matters, but 
nevertheless you are old enough to understand 
that years ago your father wished to marry 
Madame la Comtesse.” 

“Then why didn’t he?” I stammered. 

“Her family, her father and brother, pre- 
vented it. It would have been a most unsuitable 
match. The Comte de Castelle was wealthy and 
well-born.” 

“But my father is rich, too, and he is the 
best man in the whole world,” I cried enthusi- 
astically. 

“Respectable — yes,” assented the Frenchman 
with a sneer, “but no fit associate for a de Brien- 
nais.” 

“But she associates with thee,” I cried warmly, . 
“and thee is only his manager and not even a 
gentleman.” 

The Frenchman’s face turned scarlet. “Take 
care, mademoiselle, how you insult me,” he ex- 
claimed. • “You may be sorry for it later.” 

He thrust his face close to mine. “That cousin 
of yours — Benjamin Robinson — you are fond of 
him?” 

Entirely taken by surprise I blurted out the 
truth. “I love him dearly — dearly.” 

“Very well! I would have you know that it 


132 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


rests entirely with yourself whether I make his 
fortune or ruin him.” 

“Cousin Benjamin does not want a fortune,” 
I declared. “What use would a lov of money be 
in Gorley?” 

“Everybody wants a fortune,” retorted Felix 
Leblond, “at all events no one wishes to lose what 
he has got already. Now listen, mademoiselle. 
Keep that insolent little tongue of yours in order, 
and be silent concerning that letter we both know 
of, and all will be well. But mark my words. I 
have means of finding out what I want to learn, 
and should I hear that there has been any gossip 
or chatter about my concerns you will suffer for 
it, and suffer through this cousin of whom you 
pretend to be so fond.” 

I felt at my wit’s ends with terror and dismay. 
“Don’t thee do any harm to Cousin Benjamin,” I 
besought him, “don’t thee. Listen, Felix Leblond, 
and I will tell thee something. I never read one 
single word of that paper of thine, not one single 
word. It is the truth I am telling thee. I mopped 
up the ink which was spilt upon it, but I didn’t 
read any of the writing.” 

He caught my arm eagerly. “That is really 
the truth. You swear it?” 

“I couldn’t swear it,” I replied, “for it is wicked 
to swear, and God would be angry with me; but I 
don’t tell lies, truly I don’t, Felix Leblond.” 

He wiped his face with his handkerchief and 
looked so strange that I thought he was going to 
be ill again. But presently he smiled and put out 
his hand, which terror obliged me to take, though 
most unwillingly. 


UNWELCOME PRESENTS 133 

‘‘Then it is peace between us, mademoiselle.’* 

“I suppose so,” I replied, “if thee will promise, 
promise faithfully, not to do Cousin Benjamin any 
harm.” 

Felix Leblond shrugged his shoulders. “I am 
in a position, as I told you before, mademoiselle, 
to be of the greatest service to your cousin. I 
shall be delighted to do my best for him under 
the present circumstances.” He patted my shoul- 
der familiarly, and leered into my face with a sort 
of unwilling admiration. “Good heavens !” he ex- 
claimed half-laughing, “what a sly little cat it is ! 
I suppose you intended to pay me for that shaking 
I gave you, mon enfant.” 

I objected very much to being called a 
“sly little cat,” but daring to say nothing I was 
silent. 

“We shall probably never meet again,” he con- 
tinued, “therefore adieu, mademoiselle. Believe 
me, your cousin’s interests shall have my best 
attention.” 

He raised his hat with a low bow, and walked 
away briskly. Slightly cheered by his last piece of 
information, that I was never likely to see him 
again, I yet wished with my whole heart that 
Cousin Benjamin had nothing to do with this 
dreadful man, and I spent the evening in a state of 
the utmost despondency. I had been taught so 
frequently how ill it becomes a child to ask ques- 
tions and pry into the affairs of her elders, that, 
little as I stood in awe of Cousin Benjamin, I 
did not dare to ask him concerning his business 
with the Frenchman. I felt worried and puzzled 
and helpless, and the fact that my cousin seemed 


134 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


In even better spirits than usual did not cheer me 
in the least. 

I pondered also about what Felix Leblond had 
told me concerning my father and Madame de 
Castelle. They had loved each other, (I had 
heard my beautiful lady acknowledge her love to 
Monsieur de Briennals, her brother) but the lat- 
ter, and all her family, had considered the mar- 
riage would be “unsuitable.” 

“What is unsuitable. Cousin Naomi?” I asked, 
as I watched her watering the garden at sundown. 

“Unsuitable Is the opposite of suitable,” my 
cousin answered promptly. “If I planted roses 
In this particular corner of the garden it would 
be highly unsuitable because the soil is not good 
for roses.” 

I tried to think how my beautiful lady would 
have looked planted at Bursfield, and I could not 
imagine it at all, for I was not old enough, you 
see, to understand how love will make fairyland 
of the ugliest, dullest place. I did not give my 
own dear mother much thought, because she was 
In heaven with the angels, away from the struggles 
and troubles of the world, but I did wonder where 
I should have come in, supposing father had mar- 
ried Madame de Castelle. Perhaps I should not 
have come at all, and I tried hard to picture the 
world without me, but failed. 

At all events, Felix Leblond had given me the 
key to my father’s “history”; and I knew now 
why there was sometimes such deep sadness in 
his eyes. 


CHAPTER XIV 


CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND CAPS 

The sun shone just the same, and the birds 
sang; the flowers bloomed, (it was the season of 
dog-roses now, and they hung over the hedges in 
festoons and garlands, and it was a wonderful 
sight to see a bush, covered with the pink buds 
and flowers, reflected in the clear, sparkling river) . 
Still I did not feel happy. My heart was heavy 
with the burden of hidden sin ; I refer, of course, 
to Sarah’s half dozen caps buried in the depths 
of my little tin trunk. God was justly angry with 
me, and was punishing me. Had He not allowed 
the Frenchman to torment me, and had He not 
prevented me from seeing my beautiful lady un- 
til the last day of her visit to Gorley. I was a 
wicked little girl, for I had not so much as written 
to poor Sarah to tell her I had received her work. 
I was miserable — ungrateful, but still — I had not 
the courage to produce the caps. 

Late on Sunday evening I sat in the garden, 
long after I should have been in bed, musing 
sadly, while a star twinkled high up in the sky 
and seemed to say: “Little Silence, thee thinks 
thee has hidden away those caps so that no one 
can see them ; but I can see them, and God, Who 
lives close to me, can see them, and He is dis- 
pleased with thee.” 


136 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


I remembered that mother lived with God in 
heaven now, and I wondered could she see also. 
If so, how sorry she must be and ashamed of me 
too. Cousin Benjamin came and sat down beside 
me and patted my hand kindly. “What’s the 
matter, little one?” said he. “Thee has lost thy 
tongue lately.” 

I liked to hear Cousin Benjamin say “thee” and 
“thou.” It sounded comfortable somehow. 

“I think thee needs a dose of my herb-tea,” he 
continued. “This hot weather is trying to little 
folk.” 

“I am quite well, I thank thee, Cousin Benja- 
min,” I replied. “I am only unhappy.” 

“That is the worst sickness of all, child,” said 
he, putting his arm around me, and I began to 
cry. 

“Thou art perhaps home-sick, little one?” 

“Oh! no, I exclaimed between my sobs. 
“I love Gorley, and the White Cottage, and 
Cousin Naomi, and thee most of all. Cousin 
Benjamin.” 

I hesitated a moment, and then I threw my 
arms round his neck. “I am unhappy because 
I am so wicked,” I explained. 

**Thee — wicked T exclaimed my cousin. “Why, 
what hast thee been doing, child?” 

Bit by bit I stammered forth the story of the 
caps and their concealment, and Cousin Benjamin 
heard me out in silence, though he held his arm 
very closely round me. 

When I had finished there was a moment’s si- 
lence and then: “Let me look at these caps,” 
commanded Cousin Benjamin. 


CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND CAPS 137 

I flew to the house, unpacked the parcel, to- 
gether with Sarah’s letter, and, returning, handed 
both to my cousin. It was light enough to read 
at nine o’clock these June evenings, and he 
looked carefully through the letter, and then, 
folding it, returned it to me. “Hast thee 
answered this worthy woman’s letter?” he en- 
quired. 

“No-o, Cousin Benjamin,” I stammered in con- 
fusion. “I didn’t know what to say, and I do 
hate the caps so.” 

“But thee must love her for her kindness and 
devotion,” he answered gravely; “this letter must 
be answered to-morrow.” 

He examined a cap upside down, holding it 
delicately by the strings, and then, shaking his 
head, gave it back to me. “I can make nothing 
of it. Let me see thee in it, child.” 

I put on the cap, tying the strings as neatly as 
possible, and Cousin Benjamin put on his spec- 
tacles and surveyed me long and earnestly. 

“What dost thee think of it?” I ventured 
presently. 

He shook his head for the second time. “I 
mean no disrespect to thy worthy servant. Silence, 
when I say that I consider this cap to be a most 
preposterous head-covering.” 

My heart leapt within me. 

“I remember the Friends wore them in my 
young days,” he continued: “my own dear mother 
wore one similar to this, but I should have thought 
that in this more enlightened age they would have 
known better. These caps are absolutely unhy- 
gienic.” (That was the word Cousin Benjamin 


138 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


used, I am sure, though I could not remember it 
for some time afterwards.) 

He then talked for a long, long while about 
how necessary it was for the air to play about the 
head and ears, and he went to the house and 
brought out a large book, the author of which en- 
tirely agreed with him, and he would have read 
aloud out of it only it was too dark to see prop- 
erly by this time. And then he told me that to go 
widiout any head-gear at all was ideal, but that 
unfortunately custom made the habit impossible; 
however, only the lightest materials should be 
used in the construction of hats and bonnets, 
and that he had frequently deplored the weight 
of my bonnet, but had not liked to mention the 
subject. “Thy friend, Madame de Castelle’s 
head-gear struck me as both sensible and becom- 
ing,” said he. 

“But she is not a Friend,” I demurred. 

“The Almighty never Intended us to sacrifice 
health for any particular form of religion,” re- 
plied Cousin Benjamin, and talked for a long time 
again about things I could not in the least under- 
stand; but I was far too delighted to feel any 
impatience, and my bliss was unalloyed when 
Cousin Benjamin promised to write himself to 
my father to ask that I need not wear the hated 
and unhygienic head-covering, and also said that 
he would assist me in the composition of a letter 
which should spare Sarah’s feelings as far as 
possible. 

“Good-night, dear Cousin Benjamin. Thee 
hast made me ever so happy!” I exclaimed at 
parting. 


CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND CAPS 139 


“That’s right, little one,” said he, kissing me 
affectionately. “No one should be unhappy in 
June on a night like this.” 

Poor Cousin Benjamin! He little thought how 
sad and sorry he himself would be on the morrow. 

For in the morning came a letter from my 
father which emphatically forbade me to accept 
the fairy story-book, or any other present, from 
Felix Leblond. My father told me that he had 
found it necessary, though at great inconv^enience, 
to pay the Frenchman his price and to get rid of 
him. He had accepted bribes and generally be- 
haved dishonorably, but father said he blamed 
himself greatly for this state of affairs, because 
he should never have allowed his manager such 
a free hand in the business. Worst of all, Felix 
Leblond had for some time been associated with 
a second business, of which my father did not 
know the exact nature, but he suspected it 
to include money-lending and very dubious 
speculation. 

“Thee will not understand all that I am writ- 
ing, my dear daughter,” concluded my father, 
“but I wish thee to show this letter to thy Cousin 
Benjamin, because, when he reads it, I think he 
will see that Felix Leblond is no fit visitor for a 
respectable house, and I am sorry he thrust him- 
self upon thee at Gorley.” 

Not one word did he say about either Madame 
de Castelle or her brother, Antoine de Briennais. 

I finished my letter and then handed it to Cousin 
Benjamin, who, for a wonder, was breakfasting 
with Cousin Naomi at the same time as myself. 

“Father says I am not to have the fairy-book,” 


140 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


I explained, “see, this is his letter. He wishes 
thee to read it.” 

My cousin took it from me, and I was startled 
and shocked to see how white his face became dur- 
ing the reading of it. 

“Dear Cousin Benjamin,” I exclaimed, “don’t 
mind so dreadfully. Felix Leblond has gone, and 
he won’t come back to Gorley ever again. He 
told me so himself.” 

My cousin did not seem to hear me. He laid 
the letter down on the table and buried his face 
in his hands. His wife ran to him and put her 
arms round him and laid his grey head upon her 
breast. “Tell me about it, my dear husband,” she 
whispered. “Tell your wife the trouble and 
we will bear it together.” And then the truth 
came out. 

It appeared that, besides his small pension and 
the White Cottage, Cousin Benjamin possessed a 
little fortune of two thousand pounds. This 
money had been invested by a respectable Reading 
solicitor, an old friend of my cousins’, in a mort- 
gage which, paying five per cent, brought in one 
hundred pounds a year. But a month ago this 
mortgage “fell in.” That means the money 
Cousin Benjamin had lent was paid back and 
now lay in the bank waiting for re-investment, and 
most unfortunately this valuable friend and ad- 
viser had been obliged to take a holiday on ac- 
count of his health, and was spending a couple 
of months in Cornwall, transacting no business of 
any sort. 

Therefore, Cousin Benjamin, greatly impressed 
by Felix Leblond’s business capabilities, had dis- 


CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND CAPS 141 

cussed the situation fully with him, and the latter 
had delicately suggested that, were the money 
placed in his hands, he could invest it to better ad- 
vantage and at an increased tate of interest. 

‘‘You let him have it?” exclaimed Cousin 
Naomi anxiously. 

“I wrote him the check last Friday,” replied 
Cousin Benjamin shamefacedly. 

He took his wife’s hand in his own, and his 
poor old face worked pitifully. 

“May God forgive me, but this desire of filthy 
lucre has been my undoing,” said he. He hesi- 
tated a moment, and a tear trickled slowly down 
his thin cheek. “I never forget,” he continued in 
a low voice, “that my little pension dies with me, 
and it was such a joy to me to think that, with the 
help of this Frenchman, my dear wife’s future 
would be so comfortably assured.” 

Cousin Naomi was crying by this time. “Ben- 
jamin, my own husband, don’t look like that. 
Even if the money is lost ” 

“But it won’t be lost,” I broke in suddenly, 
“don’t thee take on so, either of thee. The money 
will be all right. Listen, and I will tell thee how 
I know all about it.” 

They fixed their eyes upon me, seated hand-in- 
hand, just like a couple of children waiting for 
some grown-up to tell them an interesting story. 

And they certainly did hear a story, for I told 
them all that I knew of Felix Leblond from the 
beginning. It was not a pretty tale; even I, a 
child, realized its sordidness as I described the 
inky papers at Bursfield, the Frenchman’s terror 
that I had read the contents of one of them, and 


142 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


then his subsequent politeness and the gift of 
chocolates, which my father had called “hush- 
money.” 

I felt really triumphant as I told of the meeting 
in the Green Lane, how Felix Leblond had threat- 
ened to punish me by hurting Cousin Benjamin, 
and how I had made things all right. 

“Thee need have no fear,” I announced em- 
phatically. “Felix Leblond is a horrid man, but 
he will do his best for thee. He said so two or 
three times.” 

Cousin Naomi looked immensely relieved at 
this last piece of news, but her husband 
shook his head and looked more despondent than 
before. 

“Dear Cousin Benjamin,” I exclaimed eagerly, 
“art thou not comforted? Thee will be quite 
safe, really.” 

My heart sank to hear him groan. “To think 
that I have put our money at the disposal of a 
usurer! A man who would stoop to threaten a 
child. Never will I accept a farthing from such a 
scoundrel.” 

This was strong language indeed from Cousin 
Benjamin. 

“But what will thee do?” I enquired anxiously. 
“Dost thee think Felix Leblond will send the 
money back if thee asks it of him?” 

“I shall demand it of him,” my cousin an- 
swered sternly. “A usurer! One who wrings 
money from the poor and needy! God forbid 
that any money of mine should go to help such 
an one.” 

“Thee must be careful,” I warned him, “he is 


CONCERNING CONSCIENCE AND CAPS 143 


a dreadful man. It Is best to keep friends with 
him if possible.” 

“Friends — with a usurer — an extortioner!” 
protested Cousin Benjamin. “He appeared to be 
such a worthy fellow,” he continued mournfully, 
“the open, frank manner with which he thanked 
me for the herb medicine! His views on vege- 
table dietary! If one could but convince him of 
the error of his ways.” 

“He admired the garden,” sighed Cousin 
Naomi. “I had a notion that nobody could be 
utterly vile who loved a garden.” 

“And he Is so Intimate with Silence’s friends, 
the de Castelles,” continued Cousin Benjamin. 
“Can they know what he is? I thought they 
seemed delightful people.” 

“He Is the friend of Monsieur de Briennals,” I 
replied. “Madame does not like him. I thought 
she looked afraid of him somehow, and she was 
so glad when I told her he was father’s manager. 
She seemed to think he was something else dread- 
ful, but she didn’t say what.” 

“I wish Sylvester were here to advise us,” ob- 
served Cousin Naomi forlornly. 

“I should think father would make it all right,” 
I answered, “but Paris Is so far away. Will thee 
write to him, Cousin Benjamin?” 

Then It was my cousin made the resolution of 
a lifetime. “I shall go myself to Paris,” said he, 
“and see thy father and this Leblond.” 

We were both surprised, but Cousin Naomi was 
more surprised than I was, and she gazed at her 
husband as though scarcely believing her own ears. 
“Go to see Sylvester — to Paris !” she gasped. 


144 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Neither of them had been further than Reading 
for fifteen years. There was a long, long pause, 
during which I am sure each realized that a tre- 
mendous enterprise had been undertaken. And 
then Cousin Naomi enquired firmly: “When do 
we start?” 

queried Cousin Benjamin. 

“You do not surely imagine that I should trust 
you to travel alone to Paris?” retorted his wife, 
decidedly. 

“But the expense?” hesitated Cousin Benjamin, 
worldly wise for once in his life. 

“Thanks to Sylvester’s generosity we need not 
consider that at present,” replied Cousin Naomi, 
glancing at me as she spoke. 

My heart sank as the thought of my future 
flashed across me for the first time. “Shall I 
have to go back to Bursfield?” I faltered. 

My cousins looked at each other, and Cousin 
Benjamin was the first to speak. “The child will 
of course go with us,” said he. “Her father gave 
her into our keeping, and we will not betray our 
trust.” 


CHAPTER XV 


GOOD-BYE GORLEY 

In the course of an hour or so Cousin Benjamin 
was his old cheerful self again. He found it 
quite easy to persuade himself that no man would 
or could delay returning a sum of money to its 
rightful possessor directly the said possessor 
showed himself desirous of claiming his own 
again; also he showed by sundry hints that he 
really could not believe such a civil, pleasant- 
spoken man as Felix Leblond had shown himself 
to be at the White Cottage could be such a thor- 
ough-paced scoundrel as my father’s letter led one 
to infer. 

‘T believe, my dear child,” announced Cousin 
Benjamin solemnly, “I believe that a few kindly 
words of warning would soon bring this mis- 
guided young man to a sense of the error of his 
ways. The words of a simple country-bred old 
fellow like myself would, of course, have small 
weight with a man of the world; but I shall beg 
thy father, who from his wider experience is 
doubtless thoroughly well fitted for the task, I 
shall beg him to speak to Leblond very plainly and 
seriously.” 

Therefore, after settling with himself that the 
Frenchman would give back the two thousand 
pounds and stop money-lending. Cousin Benjamin 


146 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


produced an atlas, and he and I spent an exciting 
time tracing the route of our prospective journey; 
though the distance from London to Paris looked 
so small upon the map of Europe, which we first 
consulted, that we were fain to turn to the map 
of France, which impressed us very much as we 
pointed out to each other the formidable number 
of towns and villages which we should have to 
pass upon our way from Calais to Paris. 

For myself I was literally overwhelmed by a 
trembling, fearful joy. To visit France, not only 
to see the ocean, but to cross it in a steamboat! 
To go to Paris, where the people ate frogs and 
where, according to “Near Home,” everybody 
was gay and chattered and laughed incessantly! 
The thought of it all was pure bliss. What would 
the girls say? What would Harriet Field say? 
Why, only upon my tenth birthday Harriet had 
told me never to expect to leave Bursfield unless 
I should be sent to a Friends’ School. Coming to 
Gorley had been a mighty change, but some of the 
girls had traveled as far as Gorley. Not one of 
them had been out of their own country, and the 
prospect of a visit to Paris loomed before me, an 
immense, a colossal undertaking. 

The single fly in my ointment was the doubt 
whether my father would entirely approve my 
coming to Paris. Had he wished me to be there 
he would surely have taken me with him, and more 
than once my heart stood still with fear that he 
should reply to Cousin Benjamin’s letter, forbid- 
ding me to accompany my cousins and directing 
that I should be sent back to Bursfield. I ran up 
to my little room, and flinging myself upon my 


GOOD-BYE GORLEY 


147 


knees before the bed I prayed hard that God 
would permit no such calamity to overtake me, 
but that He would let the Spirit move my father 
to consent to my coming to Paris. 

When I came downstairs, with hope renewed, I 
found Cousin Benjamin deep in the composition 
of his letter to father, and tip-toeing my way out 
of the room, so as not to disturb him, I went to 
find my Cousin Naomi in the garden. 

She was working hard, stooping over a flower- 
bed and pulling up some faded flowers in order 
to replace them by fresh plants, but I noticed that 
she held her head very low, and once or twice she 
rubbed her hand across her eyes as though wiping 
away a tear. I watched her in silence for a few 
moments, not knowing what to say, and wonder- 
ing whether she were distressed at the prospect 
of leaving the White Cottage for a visit to Paris; 
but suddenly she looked up, and there was some- 
thing wistful and pathetic in her face, which I 
had never seen there before, and which made me 
feel even sorrier for her than I had felt an hour 
ago for Cousin Benjamin. 

‘‘Silence,” said she, “about this money of your 
cousin’s. I am afraid Monsieur Leblond is a very 
unscrupulous man.” 

“I don’t know what that word means,” I re- 
plied, “but if thee’s saying that Felix Leblond is 
not a nice man, why, father thinks so too.” 

“It would be such a serious thing for us if we 
lost the little income that two thousand pounds 
brings in to us,” she continued. “Your cousin’s 
pension is small, and it is sometimes hard to make 
ends meet, even with our simple way of living. 


148 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


and we are neither of us so young as we once were. 
Of course, we might let this cottage.” 

“Let!” I exclaimed. “Dost thee mean hire 
the White Cottage out to strangers? Oh 1 Cousin 
Naomi 1” 

I seized her hand impetuously. “Cousin Naomi, 
thee shan’t lose the money, thee shanU. I promise 
it thee faithfully. Father won’t let thee lose it. 
He will make Felix Leblond pay it back, whether 
he wishes or no. Thee and Cousin Benjamin shall 
never have to leave the White Cottage except 
just to go this once to Paris.” 

“You are a good little soul. Silence,” she an- 
swered, patting my shoulder, and then she smiled 
bravely and crossed the grass to meet her hus- 
band, who was coming toward us, his letter in 
his hand. “You are going to post your letter, Ben- 
jamin? That is right,” said she, cheerfully. “We 
shall soon have the money back, and then William 
Crewe will find another mortgage — better, I dare- 
say, than the last.” 

“But not so good as Leblond’s investment,” 
replied her husband, ruefully. “Received legiti- 
mately, that would have indeed been splendid. 
He promised ten per cent. I had planned to tell 
thee as a joyful surprise this very day,” he added, 
“and now Sylvester’s letter has spoilt it all.” 

“Never mind, Benjamin,” replied Cousin 
Naomi. “We must learn to be content with Wil- 
liam Crewe’s five per cent.” 

“How truly Scripture says, ‘Give me neither 
poverty nor riches,’ ” exclaimed her husband, “be- 
cause one hundred a year extra would have been 
riches to us, Naomi. We have hitherto been able 


GOOD-BYE GORLEY 


149 


to do so little for others — and — after I am gone. 
Well, well, dear wife. It doesn’t do to be mer- 
cenary. I have had my lesson.” 

Cousin Benjamin tramped away, and when he 
came back he was very excited about something 
which was going to happen to the moon upon the 
following Friday (the day before which we were 
to start for Paris), but Cousin Naomi continued 
to look very grave and anxious when he was not 
by to notice it. 

I was never more surprised than by the prepa- 
rations, or rather want of preparations, for our 
journey. I expected everybody at the White Cot- 
tage to be as busy as bees, just like Sarah and 
Rebecca the week before I left Bursfield. My 
cousins were busy, it is true, but all about their 
usual business. Cousin Benjamin pottered around, 
cooked his usual messes, and talked about what a 
lot he should learn in France of vegetable cookery, 
for it appeared that Parisians, besides their par- 
tiality for frogs, had an immense fondness for 
green-stuff. Cousin Naomi raked, hoed and 
planted: and any idea of clothes or packing never 
seemed to enter into either of their calculations 
at all. 

I watched the post eagerly, but there came no 
reply to my cousin’s letter, which I couldn’t help 
thinking strange, but which they took quite as a 
matter of course, saying that doubtless my father 
was much occupied, and did not think it necessary 
to send an answer. Of course, the loss of Felix 
Leblond would make him very busy, but to me it 
seemed the queerest thing in the world that he 
should allow the three of us to make such a long 


150 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


journey without a single word of encouragement. 

It was upon the Monday that my cousins made 
their decision to go to Paris. Tuesday, Wednes- 
day and Thursday passed just as usual, but on 
Friday morning Cousin Benjamin announced that 
it was quite time to see about some packing; and 
he went to the garret to bring down the boxes 
which had not been used for fifteen long years. 
When he came downstairs again he was covered 
with dust, but he brought no luggage with him. 
It was not fit to use again, all spoilt with the 
damp as it was, and eaten up with rust and 
mildew. 

So Cousin Benjamin had to hurry to Reading to 
buy himself a portmanteau and his wife a trunk, 
and I walked with him to Gorley Station, upon 
the platform of which we met the doctor who had 
come to Felix Leblond’s rescue ten days ago at 
the Mansfield Hotel. He shook hands heartily 
with me, begging my cousin to bring me to lunch- 
eon one day in the following week; and he 
seemed surprised when he learned that we were all 
off to Paris upon the following morning. 

“There seems likely to be trouble over there 
before long,’’ observed the doctor. 

“I am sorry to hear It. May I ask of what 
nature?” enquired Cousin Benjamin, mildly. 

“Why, It will be a serious business If France 
goes to war with Germany,” exclaimed the 
doctor, adding, “don’t you read your paper, 
Robinson?” 

“We don’t hear much news of the outside 
world at the White Cottage,” replied my cousin. 
“But I do sincerely deplore this rumor, and trust 


GOOD-BYE GORLEY 


151 

that It has no foundation,” he continued. “The 
horrors of war are very terrible. The misery — 
the suffering it entails — and all for what?” 

“Ay, ay, war’s a bad business, a very bad busi- 
ness,” agreed the doctor, cutting him short rather 
unceremoniously; and then he turned to me and 
asked me how my sick friend was getting on. 

“Been having any more of those attacks?” he 
enquired. 

I replied that Felix Leblond had left Gorley, 
but that, so far as I knew, he was quite well 
again. 

“He had better be careful,” replied the doctor. 
“As far as I could judge, without examination, 
his heart is In a bad way, a very bad way indeed. 
But there. If anyone told him so I daresay he 
wouldn’t believe it; some people are as obstinate 
as mules.” 

He wished us good-morning and walked away, 
while Cousin Benjamin turned to me, looking 
really worried. “If that young man’s health is in 
such a serious state as Doctor Thompson im- 
plies,” said he, “It is time Indeed that someone 
brought him to the knowledge of the error of his 
ways.” 

He paced up and down the platform, mourn- 
fully shaking his head. “Complaints of the 
heart,” he exclaimed: “war between two mighty 
nations! Oh! my child, how small appear one’s 
own petty troubles when one considers the sor- 
rows of the world around.” 

“Cousin Benjamin,” I interposed anxiously, for 
I saw the train coming along in the distance, “thee 
won’t get thinking too much of war and Felix 


152 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


LeblonTs heart while thee is choosing the trunks? 
Promise me thee won’t, Cousin Benjamin, or thee 
will certaii^ly forget some of the things Cousin 
Naomi asked thee to remember?” 

“Thee has an old head on thy shoulders, child,” 
he replied, not one bit offended. “But I am in no 
danger to-day, for, see, I have made provision 
against forgetfulness.” 

He produced a handkerchief knotted into seven 
or eight large knots; and the train steamed out of 
the station with my cousin inside it hard at work 
trying to remember the particular reason for 
each particular knot. 


CHAPTER XVI 


INNOCENTS ABROAD 

I do not know how we got to Paris. The jour- 
ney certainly taught me one thing — namely, that 
anybody in quest of change and adventure must 
be prepared to put up with a vast number of dis- 
agreeables. Not that I had expected the search 
for adventure to be unattended with hardships. 
The histories of both “Robinson Crusoe,” and 
“The Swiss Family Robinson,” had begun with a 
description of their shipwreck upon desert islands; 
and I had sense enough to realize that to be 
shipwrecked must be disagreeable as well as 
alarming. Still, such adventures had, I consid- 
ered, something grand and exciting about them, 
while our experiences, though many, were flat 
and uninteresting, consisting mainly of trivial ac- 
cidents which could easily have been foretold by 
those who knew my cousins and their manner of 
life at the White Cottage. 

We began badly. We sat up so late on Friday 
evening watching the eclipse of the moon that we 
all overslept ourselves the next morning, and we 
were only completely dressed and ready for break- 
fast as the cab drove up to the gate of the cot- 
tage. So we had to start each with a piece of 
bread-and-butter in our hands, which we ate on 
our way to the station; but it was a very insuffi- 


154 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


dent meal, and by the time we reached London 
we were all desperately hungry and thirsty. 

There was plenty of time in London to get 
some breakfast at the refreshment-buffet before 
the train started for Dover, but unfortunately 
Cousin Benjamin had packed nearly all his money 
at the bottom of his new portmanteau, so we had 
to go to the “waiting-room,” unpack and find the 
money, and then there was just time to get the 
tickets before the porter ordered us to take our 
seats. 

It was a stifling day and we felt the heat very 
much in the stuffy railway carriage. I sat still, my 
eyes glued to the window, thirsting for my first 
glimpse of the cool blue sea; while Cousin Naomi 
wished more than once that my father had written 
to tell us we should be welcome in Paris. Of 
course it would be all right, said she, but any- 
body going from home for the first time for fif- 
teen years liked to make sure of the reception at 
the end of the journey. The reason of my father’s 
negligence, however, was all too soon apparent, 
and it entirely spoilt my first experience of the 
ocean. 

We were comfortably settled on the steamer, 
and oh ! it was delicious to breathe the fresh air 
after the stifling railway-carriage, and the water 
was just as blue and beautiful as I had always 
imagined it to be; we were all, as I said, quite 
comfortable and very happy, when Cousin Benja- 
min put his hand in his pocket, and in pulling out 
his handkerchief drew forth a letter with it. 
“Why. What’s this? What’s this?” he ex- 
claimed. 


INNOCENTS ABROAD 


155 


He put on his glasses and examined the letter, 
his face growing very red meanwhile. “Dear, 
dear, dear!” he muttered in tones of the utmost 
consternation, “how very unfortunate 1 Dear, 
dear, dear!” 

“Why, Benjamin, what is the matter?” en- 
quired Cousin Naomi; but Cousin Benjamin 
merely continued staring at the letter, shaking his 
head and muttering the while: “How very un- 
fortunate! Dear, dear, dear! How extremely 
unfortunate !” 

I jumped up and peeped eagerly over his shoul- 
ders. “Why, it isn’t thy letter at all. Cousin Ben- 
jamin! How funny! It’s addressed to father, 
and ” 

“Addressed to Sylvester,” gasped Cousin 
Naomi. ^^Benjamin!^^ 

Poor Cousin Benjamin was scarlet by this 
time. “I must have forgotten to post the letter,” 
he faltered. 

“But you started for the post-office. We 
watched you start. Silence and I,” exclaimed his 
wife. 

“I know,” replied Cousin Benjamin, gloomily. 
“I remember all about it now. I had nearly 
reached the village when I met the rector, who 
mentioned the subject of last night’s eclipse. I 
was extremely interested, and I suppose in my 
excitement I forgot about the letter. It is really 
most unfortunate.” 

“It is indeed,” sighed Cousin Naomi. “Noth- 
ing will be ready for us in Paris : and what will 
Sylvester think?” 


156 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Then father doesn’t know we are coming to 
Paris?” I exclaimed. 

“Of course not, child, how should he?” retorted 
Cousin Naomi, rather sharply, “unless,” she con- 
tinued, “you told him so yourself. I suppose you 
didn’t, by any chance?” 

I shook my head. “I was waiting for his an- 
swer to Cousin Benjamin’s letter,” I replied, and 
my cousin, groaning, exclaimed for the third or 
fourth time: “How extremely unfortunate!” 

Just before we landed he took the stamp care- 
fully from the corner of the letter, and tearing 
the latter into small fragments he threw them 
overboard, and we watched them flutter for a mo- 
ment in the breeze before they were swallowed up 
in the water swirling round the steamer. 

We were a subdued little party when we landed 
at Calais half an hour later, and we were all three 
very much bewildered and frightened by the chat- 
tering, gesticulating French sailors. Fortunately 
we had no hand-luggage except an umbrella and 
a waterproof apiece, but the necessary talking I 
had to do myself, because my cousins understood 
not one word of French, and I found it an entirely 
different matter speaking the language with my 
father, Felix Leblond or Madame de Castelle, to 
understanding and trying to understand such a 
crowd of foreigners all shouting together 
around us. 

We were very silent during the last long weary 
stage of our journey in the railway train between 
Calais and Paris. Exhausted with the heat we 
were faint, too, for want of food, as we had eaten 
practically nothing all day, and we lay back 


INNOCENTS ABROAD 


157 


against the cushions, Cousin Benjamin dozing, 
Cousin Naomi sighing heavily at intervals while I 
wished with all my heart that we were back 
again at Gorley, because by this time all the 
novelty of traveling had worn off, and my ginger- 
bread, stripped of its gilt, appeared both dull 
and dusty. 

There was the thought of seeing father again, 
it is true, but seeking him out at his lodging would 
not be at all the same thing as having him meet 
us at the station, to take charge of our luggage, 
put us safely in a cab, and whisk us away through 
the streets of Paris to a well-spread supper-table 
and comfortable beds. We got some cups of cof- 
fee at one of the stopping-places on the way to 
Paris, but the train moved with a jerk before we 
expected it to start, and Cousin Naomi’s cup upset 
in her lap. A brown stream meandered down her 
black silk gown, and all our handkerchiefs were 
soaked trying to mop it up, and we had none 
others with us. Everything seemed to conspire 
against us, and I, for one, did not blame my 
cousins for having preferred to remain quietly at 
home during the past fifteen years. 

We were a deplorable trio, dusty, coffee and 
travel stained, when we did finally step out of the 
train at Paris, only to find that the heaviest trial 
of all awaited us. Our troubles had, so far, been 
mere petty worries; but we were now to encounter 
veritable tragedy. By superhuman efforts we got 
our luggage through the customs, summoned a cab 
(“fiacre” the porter called it), the boxes were 
placed upon it and Cousin Benjamin helped his 
wife and myself inside. 


158 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“To what address?” enquired the driver, in 
French, of course. 

“He says ‘what address?’” I translated for 
Cousin Benjamin’s benefit. 

“Tell him the address, my dear child,” replied 
the latter. “Where is it thy father is staying?” 

I racked my brain, I shut my eyes. I thought, 
and thought, and thought. 

“Oh! Cousin Benjamin,” I faltered, “I have 
quite forgotten. Surely thee must know where 
father is living.” 

But Cousin Benjamin shook his head blankly. 

“Thee had the letter with the address only 
this morning,” I persisted, for Cousin Naomi ap- 
peared too overcome for speech. 

“But I destroyed it at Calais,” replied Cousin 
Benjamin dolefully. 

“For goodness’ sake, child, try to think,” ex- 
claimed his wife, finding her voice at last. “You 
have written often enough to your father, I’m 
sure. You can’t have forgotten the address.” 

“But I have forgotten,” I answered, bursting 
into tears. “It was a long address, and I used 
to copy it from father’s letters ; and I tied up the 
letters in a packet and left them in a drawer in 
my room at the White Cottage. Thee said I 
might. Cousin Naomi, and oh! what shall we do? 
What shall we do?” 

We stared all three at each other in puzzled, 
frightened helplessness. We were babes, not in 
the wood, but in Paris — though we could not, I am 
sure, have felt more desolate had we found our- 
selves in the midst of a gloomy forest with nought 
save miles of trees around us. 


INNOCENTS ABROAD 


159 


The driver dismounted from his box, while a 
little knot of porters joined our own, and all 
united in asking curiously, though quite civilly, 
what was the matter? I explained the situation 
between my sobs, and they were actually speech- 
less for the space of several seconds, dumfounded 
at the idea of traveling several hundred miles to 
join friends, only to find at the journey’s end that 
the address of these same friends had been for- 
gotten. 

“Tiens! but it’s a most unfortunate affair!” ex- 
claimed the driver, sympathetically. 

“Mon dieul but what is to be done?” de- 
manded the porter, and I forgave him the swear 
word for the occasion appeared almost to justify 
its use. 

Then they all began to chatter together, while 
my cousins stared in bewildered, troubled silence, 
first at them, and then at me. Presently one 
stepped forward with the sensible suggestion that 
Monsieur, Madame and Mademoiselle had better 
all repair to a nice quiet hotel; he knew of just 
such a one in the Rue de Rivoli. They could 
spend the night there, and arise refreshed in the 
morning to begin the search for their friends in 
earnest. 

“He says we must go to a hotel,” I translated 
freely for my cousins’ benefit. 

“We have never stayed in a hotel,” demurred 
Cousin Benjamin. 

“And in a foreign city, too — Paris of all 
places!” exclaimed Cousin Naomi. 

“But what are we to do?” I enquired, gloomily. 
“We must sleep somewhere. We can’t find father 


i6o 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


and — if Madame de Castelle were at home I am 
sure she would help us.” 

“But we don’t know where she lives either,” 
retorted Cousin Naomi. 

“I do,” I replied, confidently. “She lives in 
the Avenue Bois de Boulogne. I remembered that 
perfectly well because when she told me her ad- 
dress I thought she meant she lived at Boulogne, 
which is on the sea, like Calais. And then she 
explained that this Boulogne was part of Paris.” 

My cousins looked hopeful for a moment, and 
then Cousin Naomi shook her head. 

“But,” said she, “how can Madame de Castelle 
help us when she is probably in England?” 

“Madame de Castelle,” exclaimed a porter, 
“does mademoiselle speak of the Comtesse de 
Castelle?” 

“Dost thee know her?” I enquired, eagerly. “I 
saw her last week in England.” 

“All Paris knows the beautiful Comtesse,” re- 
plied the man, “and she is already returned. It 
was but yesterday that I assisted the footman 
with her luggage.” 

“She is back again! She has come home,” I 
joyfully informed my cousins. “Let us go and 
ask her what we must do. We shall soon find out 
where she lives because the porter says all Paris 
knows her.” 

No sooner said than done. Cousin Benjamin 
climbed inside the fiacre, we paid the porters what 
they asked, which seemed a good deal, but as none 
of us had the slightest idea of the value of French 
money we could not help ourselves. The driver 
mounted his box, cracked his whip, and away we 


INNOCENTS ABROAD i6i 

drove through the gaily lighted Paris streets in 
the direction of the Bois de Boulogne. My tears 
flowed fast as I remembered that far, far away 
the moon would be rising at beautiful, peaceful 
Gorley, just like last night; the White Cottage 
would be standing just the same as usual, with its 
roses, dripping with dew, making the night air 
sweet with their fragrance; and the river would 
be splish-splashing against the banks of the little 
green backwater at the bottom of the garden. 
How wise my cousins had been to stay quietly and 
contentedly in their own dear little home; and 
how I wished, again and yet again, that none of 
us had been fated to meet my father’s ex-manager, 
Felix Leblond, who, after all, was the one 
mainly responsible for our present unfortunate 
position ! 

The cab drew up, and the driver, dismounting, 
threw open the door and pointed toward a large, 
white house. “The Hotel de Castelle,” he an- 
nounced impressively. “Does Madame wish that 
I should ring the bell?” 

“The Hotel de Castelle! Why, it looks like a 
palace!” faltered poor Cousin Naomi, glancing 
from her husband and myself, untidy and dis- 
heveled, to her own coffee-stained, dusty gown. 
“I didn’t think — I hardly like ” 

“We can’t help being untidy,” I answered 
decidedly; “and Madame de Castelle will under- 
stand and won’t mind a bit. She is so sweet and 
kind. Please, please, Cousin Naomi, let the man 
ring the bell.” 

My cousin meekly agreed. She looked too 
tired and worn out to raise any further objections. 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


162 

and the driver climbed the steps and rang a re- 
sounding peal at the door-bell. 

We were all three at his side by the time the 
door opened, and a tall man in splendid livery 
stood before us. 

“Ask if Madame de Castelle is at home, and if 
she can see us,” directed Cousin Naomi. 

The man answered, in apparent surprise, that 
“Madame la Comtesse was at home, but that it 
was too late for her to receive to-night.” 

“Don’t thee say that,” I exclaimed in agony. 
“She knows us quite well, and me best of all. Tell 
her it is Silence Strangeways from Gorley, and 
say that we are lost in Paris.” 

The footman looked more puzzled than ever, 
until the kind-hearted driver explained something 
of the trouble we had been put to. 

“Thee will tell her,” I implored him. “Please 
promise that thee will let her know we are here.” 

“Come in Monsieur and Mesdames,” replied 
the footman, leading the way into the vestibule. 
“Have the goodness to wait here for a moment, 
and I will tell Madame la Comtesse.” 

He could not have been away more than a 
minute, and I was just beginning to realize the 
splendor and luxury of my surroundings, so dif- 
ferent to anything I had ever seen before, when 
there was a sound of voices, an opening and shut- 
ting of doors, and my beautiful lady hurried for- 
ward with hands outstretched toward us. “My 
poor friends,” she exclaimed, “my poor friends! 
You are in trouble, I hear. How glad I am you 
thought to come to me!” 

“Madame,” I faltered, awed by the sight of her 


INNOCENTS ABROAD , 163 

wonderful beauty: (She was all in white, I re- 
member, her arms were bare and her neck also, 
and she wore shining stones round her throat and 
in her hair). “Madame, we can’t remember 
where father lives in Paris, and we didn’t know 
what to do, so — so we came to thee.” 

She threw her arms around me and kissed me. 
“Little grey girl,” said she, “you did right. Ex- 
actly right. You shall all three stay with me 
to-night, and to-morrow I will help you to find 
your father.” 


CHAPTER XVII 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 

The following day, Sunday, I have always re- 
garded as the most fortunate day in my life. I 
didn’t realize it at the time — very few of us do 
realize good fortune at the time it comes — but in 
after years, when I looked back upon the past, I 
could always say to myself as I remembered Sun- 
day, June 19th, “what a happy day that was for 
me, because during the course of it I made three 
firm, life-long friends.” He who makes one good 
friend is accounted fortunate, but imagine making 
three, and all at the same time ! I could indeed 
say, with the French themselves, “Quel bonheur!” 

I woke early, rested and refreshed, and looking 
around my little white bedroom I could not at 
first imagine what had happened to me. But pres- 
ently everything came back; the long, weary jour- 
ney; the miserable arrival in Paris; the coming 
to Madame de Castelle’s house: and then there 
had been a delicious supper, which I had been 
almost too weary to eat, and I had got into bed 
somehow — anyhow, while my beautiful lady had 
tucked me in herself, and the last thing I remem- 
bered was hearing her voice asking God and His 
Holy Mother to bless and protect me through the 
coming night. 

And now it was morning. The sun shone 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 


165 


brightly into the room, the hands of my watch 
pointed to half-past seven o’clock, and I felt I 
couldn’t stay in bed a moment longer. I jumped 
up and ran to the window. To my astonishment 
there were trees everywhere — how different was 
Paris from Bursfield or even London!" There 
were blue-bloused men in the road outside, and 
everybody and everything looked bright and 
fresh, gay and clean. I remained peeping out of 
the window for some considerable time, then, turn- 
ing away, I washed, dressed and, remembering 
the day, donned my best silk gown, and when I 
had said my prayers I opened my door and peeped 
cautiously up and down the corridor. I could not 
hear anybody stirring; and wondering what time 
people got up in Paris, for it was already past 
eight o’clock, I sallied forth upon a voyage of 
discovery, treading very quietly so as not to dis- 
turb the sleeping household. 

The corridor was long. Beautiful pictures 
hung upon the walls, and marble statues, holding 
lamps in their hands, stood in corners and alcoves. 

There were several doors on either side, but 
they were all closed, and naturally I did not ven- 
ture to knock or open any of them. At the top 
of the staircase I paused, feeling suddenly shy, 
for there were sounds downstairs which told me 
that at all events part of the household was astir. 
I peeped over the carved balusters, and espied 
the footman who had let us into the house the 
night before. He was in his shirt-sleeves at pres- 
ent, but nevertheless he looked very imposing, and 
I retreated hastily. There was a half-open door 
behind me, and within the room beyond I caught 


i66 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


a glimpse of something which mightily tickled my 
fancy; it was a handsome model of a steamboat, 
not unlike the one by which we had crossed from 
Dover to Calais yesterday. 

I pushed open the door wide, and, lo and be- 
hold! upon the opposite side of the room there 
stood another model, this time of a steam-engine. 
Greatly interested, I entered and looked round 
eagerly for more wonders. It was a large, light, 
airy room, and it was hung with prints of horses 
and dogs, soldiers and battle scenes. There were 
three or four pictures, too, of gentlemen and la- 
dies in the dress of eighty or ninety years ago, and 
a beautiful little painting of Madame de Castelle. 
There was a book-case filled with books in gay, 
tempting bindings, and there was a sword hung 
up above it. I cared nothing about the sword, 
but I looked at the books with interest, and I ex- 
amined every part of the steamboat and engine. 

And then I turned to the center-table, and I 
saw that it was covered with a white cloth, and 
spread with a cup and saucer, a dainty little plate 
of delicate white rolls and some pats of butter 
in a silver dish. And as I looked my mouth wat- 
ered, and I realized that I was very, very hungry, 
and that I longed for these rolls more than for 
anything else in the room. The books, boat and 
engine seemed suddenly and unaccountably to 
have lost all interest for me. 

The sunbeams fell aslant the table and made 
the pats of butter glisten like gold in a silver 
setting, while I, like little “Goldenhair” in the 
history of “The Three Bears,” looked and longed, 
but, unlike her, did not dare to touch. 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 


167 

Presently, however, there was the sound of the 
tapping of a stick, accompanied by footsteps, and 
a boy appeared standing just within the door. He 
was slight, and fair, and pale, and, though I had 
seen little enough of boys in my short life, I liked 
the look of this one, and I did not feel at all 
afraid of him. 

“Is this thy room?” I enquired. “I could not 
lie in bed any longer, so I got up, and all the 
doors were shut except this one, and when I saw 
the steamboat I came in to look at it. I am 
Silence Strangeways.” 

The boy smiled brightly. “You are very wel- 
come, mademoiselle, and I am glad you liked my 
steamboat.” 

“I think it is splendid,” I assured him. “I 
should like to look at it again when I am not so 
hungry as I feel at present.” 

The boy hurried forward, and I noticed, for 
the first time, that he was lame and used the stick 
to help him walk. “You will join me at petit de- 
jeuner, mademoiselle?” he suggested, ringing the 
bell. 

I glanced wistfully at the table. “But these nice 
rolls are for thee. Thee will surely be able to 
eat them all thyself.” 

“There are, however, more where these came 
from,” he replied, laughing. 

A servant answered the bell, and he ordered 
coffee and rolls for two, and then we both sat 
down to the table and surveyed one another seri- 
ously. 

“I trust you are refreshed after yesterday’s 
journey?” he observed, politely. 


i68 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Thee heard about it then,” I exclaimed. 
“Wasn’t it dreadful? Thee don’t know what it 
feels like* to be lost.” 

“It must be terrible — for a girl,” agreed Valen- 
tin de Castelle. “A boy would know better how 
to take care of himself.” 

“Cousin Benjamin didn’t know, and he is quite 
an old man,” I sighed. “Oh, Monsieur Valentin, 
dost thee think we shall ever be able to find 
father?” 

My new friend assured me that “maman” 
would very shortly send Michel, the footman, in 
search of Monsieur Strangeways; and that the 
latter could not fail to be discovered sooner or 
later. The coffee and rolls arrived almost imme- 
diately, and I made an excellent breakfast, my 
host doing the honors of the table most hos- 
pitably. 

“Do you intend making a long visit to Paris?” 
he enquired toward the end of the meal. 

“That depends upon how long it takes Cousin 
Benjamin to get his money back,” I replied. 

Valentin de Castelle looked at me in some sur- 
prise. “I do not understand, mademoiselle.” 

“My cousin gave Felix Leblond two thousand 
pounds to take care of,” I exclaimed, “and now 
he wants it back again.” 

At the mention of Felix Leblond’s name the 
boy’s face grew suddenly cold and hard. “You 
know this Leblond, mademoiselle : you are friends 
with him?” 

“I know him, but we were never friends — 
never,” I replied. “Thee dislikes him, too. Mon- 
sieur Valentin?” 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 


169 


“Dislike Felix Leblond? I hate him. Mon 
dieu ! but how I hate him,” cried the boy. 
“He comes here constantly, and he talks — 
talks by the hour to maman — who detests him. I 
know she detests him; but she wishes to please 
my uncle, and therefore she is always pleasant 
to him.” 

“My father says he is a usurer, which is a very 
terrible thing to be,” I observed. 

“I don’t care what the fellow is,” exclaimed 
Valentin de Castelle. “I only know I hate him. 
The servants hate him, too, and they call him 
‘parvenu’ and ‘bourgeois.’ Not that that would 
matter were he not such a mauvais sujet. He 
lays his dirty hand on my shoulder and calls me 
Valentin. Ugh!” 

I nodded my head wisely as my new friend, 
overcome by his feelings, seized his stick and 
limped about the room in angry excitement. 

“I said to my uncle,” continued the lad, “ ‘Why 
do you put up with such a miserable?’ He an- 
swered me, ‘Tais toi, Valentin, Monsieur Leblond 
is of great use to me, and I insist upon your pay- 
ing him proper civility.’ My uncle is my guardian 
you see, mademoiselle, therefore, until I am of 
age, I must obey him.” 

“Art thee speaking of Monsieur de Briennais?” 
I inquired; “and what dost thee mean by 
‘guardian’ ?” 

“A guardian,” explained Valentin de Castelle, 
“is someone who looks after you when your own 
father is dead. I have two guardians, Maman 
and my Uncle Antoine. When I am grown up 
they will, of course, give me my own money and 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


170 

I shall look after myself. I shall see no more of 
Felix Leblond then, I promise you.” 

“Does he come every day to this house,” I in- 
quired, nervously glancing toward the door, and 
almost expecting to see the Frenchman’s sinister 
face peering round the corner. 

“He cannot come at present because he is away 
from Paris, grace a dieu !” replied my host. “But 
allons! mademoiselle, let us forget him and talk 
of something pleasant. You wished to see my 
steamboat.” 

We bent over the model, and my new friend 
explained the machinery, and showed me how to 
set it going. “It is very interesting,” I assured 
him. “Will thee work a real steamer when thee’s 
grown up. Monsieur Valentin?” 

He shook his head. “I don’t know what I shall 
do. I wanted to be a soldier, like grandpapa, 

but ” he pointed first toward the picture of a 

man dressed in old-fashioned costume, and then, 
glancing at his leg, he flushed and bit his lip. 

“Perhaps there will be no more fighting,” I 
suggested, “and then thee will not mind not being 
a soldier.” 

“Perhaps there will be fighting, and very soon,” 
he retorted impatiently, “we don’t know how 
soon.” 

“But soldiers very often get killed in a battle,” 
I announced. “I am glad thee cannot be a soldier. 
Monsieur Valentin, for I should not like thee to 
die at all.” 

My new friend turned exceedingly red. “You 
do not understand anything about it,” he ex- 
claimed. “I wanted to be like grandpapa. He 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 


171 

fought at Austerlitz, and there is his sword hang- 
ing above the book-case. But as it is,” he con- 
tinued mournfully, “if war comes they will all go. 
Monsieur le Prince, he will go, too ; and I — I shall 
be left behind.” 

I felt very sorry for him, for, although his face 
was so fair and pale, his eyes were large and dark- 
fringed with heavy black lashes, and at this mo- 
ment they had a wistful, mournful expression, such 
as one sometimes sees in the eyes of sick animals. 

“Never mind. Monsieur Valentin,” said I, 
“lots of people are very brave without being 
soldiers, and I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if thee 
did something very grand and splendid one of 
these days.” 

His face brightened. “What a strange little 
girl you are,” he exclaimed. “You talk exactly 
like maman. You are different to any little girl 
I have ever met before.” 

“That is because I am a Friend,” I told him, 
“and Friends are different to other people. I 
used to have to sit still a great deal when mother 
was alive ; and when one sits still one has time to 
think. I am very fond of thinking.” 

A few minutes later Madame de Castelle found 
us in earnest contemplation of the picture of 
Valentin’s grandpapa, while my host was thrilling 
me with an account of the wonderful adventures 
through which his ancestor had passed during the 
days of the first empire. 

“What!” said she, “you have made friends 
with my grey girl already, Valentin. I peeped 
into the nest just now, and behold; my bird had 
flown.” 


172 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


I ran to her, kissed her warmly, and eagerly 
explained the history of the morning. “I am glad 
my son looked after you,’’ said she, “but now 
come with me, cherie. Your cousins are down- 
stairs, and they will think you are lost again.” 

She looked so young and lovely that it sounded 
quite surprising to hear her call this tall boy of 
fifteen “my son,” even if she was only his step- 
mother. But it was plain to be seen she loved him 
dearly; while as for Valentin himself his face 
brightened the moment she came into the room, 
and he evidently thought the world of his “petite 
maman.” 

We found my cousins downstairs, turning over 
the leaves of some French papers, of which, of 
course, they understood not one syllable, and look- 
ing completely out of their element, like fish out 
of water, as Harriet Field used to say. They both 
looked years older than at Gorley, and, though 
they strove bravely to talk as usual to me and 
Madame de Castelle, they looked weary and dis- 
appointed. 

“Felix Leblond is not in Paris,” Cousin Benja- 
min announced in tones of deep discouragement. 
“We have had our journey for nothing. Silence.” 

“Never thee mind that,” I answered quickly. 
“Father will write to him this very day, and make 
him give thee back thy money.” 

“But how to find your father?” sighed Cousin 
Naomi, for nobody as yet had made any sugges- 
tion for his discovery, no, not even Madame de 
Castelle. It was the tall footman, Michel, who 
finally shed light upon the situation. He entered 
the room, very stiff and solemn, with a paper in his 


MONSIEUR VALENTIN 


73 


hand, and: “Madame,” said he, “I ventured to 
write down a list of the principal streets in Paris, 
thinking that perhaps Monsieur and Mesdames 
might recognize where the gentleman they wish to 
find is staying.” 

“An excellent thought, Michel,” exclaimed 
Madame de Castelle. “Give the paper to made- 
moiselle.” 

I seized the paper with scant ceremony, and 
had no difficulty in deciphering the contents, 
written as they were in large round hand. “Rue 
St. Honore? Rue Royale? — no. Boulevard des 
Italiens? Faubourg St. Germain? Rue Chaussee 
St. Antoine? . . . Here it is. I’ve found it,” 

I cried joyfully. “I remember it all now. Num- 
ber twenty-five, troisieme etage. Rue Chaussee St. 
Antoine. Oh! Cousin Benjamin, art thee not 
glad? Oh! madame, but what a clever man thy 
footman must be !” 

In a trice all was excitement. Cousin Benjamin 
wanted to shake hands with the gratified, though 
embarrassed, Michel, who, however, flatly refused 
to do any such thing. I was anxious to get my 
bonnet and start off at once for my father’s lodg- 
ing. Cousin Naomi was desirous of consulting 
Madame de Castelle’s convenience. It ended in 
Cousin Benjamin’s setting forth for the Rue 
Chaussee St. Antoine in our hostess’s carriage; 
and as he was accompanied by Michel, the foot- 
man, there appeared every reasonable likelihood 
of his arriving at his destination without further 
mishap. We had a long while to wait, quite a 
couple of hours, before he returned, and in spite 
of the kindness of Valentin de Castelle, who pro- 


174 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


vided me with books and stamp albums, and a 
variety of means of passing the time, I thought 
the morning would never end. 

However, everything, it is said, comes to him 
who knows how to wait, and we were just about to 
sit down to dejeuner when Michel appeared at the 
door announcing (with considerable difficulty), 
“Monsieur Robinson and Monsieur Strangeways.” 
And, with a cry of joy, the next moment I had 
flung myself into my father’s arms. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE 

When my father and my beautiful lady greeted 
each other, I thought I had never seen two such 
splendid looking people in my life before. I have 
already described how tall and broad he was, how 
chiseled were his features, how dark his eyes and 
hair. Madame de Castelle looked small beside 
him, and yet she was tall for a woman, and her 
hair looked all the more golden in contrast with 
his own ; and while his eyes were brown, hers were 
deep gentian blue, just like two flowers in pools 
of clear water. 

I was a little surprised that they had not more 
to talk about after such a long parting, nearly a 
dozen years, but after the first greetings were 
over, and my father had thanked Madame de 
Castelle for her great goodness in befriending us, 
they seemed to have little to say to one another 
beyond the most ordinary civilities. 

My father had come, he explained, to take us 
all three back with him to his lodging, where his 
landlady was already busy preparing rooms for 
us; but on Madame de Castelle’s pressing him to 
join her at dejeuner, he seated himself after a mo- 
ment’s hesitation. 

I did not enjoy the meal much. Madame de 
Castelle sat at the head of the table, her stepson 


176 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


sat at the bottom, my father and I on one side, my 
cousins on the other, and the conversation was all 
what the girls at school used to call “company 
talk,” about the weather, the journey from Lon- 
don to Paris, and a variety of other uninteresting 
topics. Not one word about all that had hap- 
pened since the time my father had last seen 
Madame de Castelle. Not one word of Cousin 
Benjamin’s money; indeed Felix Leblond was 
never so much as mentioned during the meal, al- 
though my tongue itched to ask how long it would 
be before my cousins would be able to receive their 
two thousand pounds. 

We were all grave together, just as though we 
were imitating the two footmen who waited upon 
us so quietly and solemnly. Madame de Castelle 
chatted to my cousins, and I listened to my father 
and Valentin, who talked together in French, the 
latter knowing no English. Several times I caught 
my father looking long and earnestly at my beau- 
tiful lady; and once she looked up and, meeting 
his glance, flushed rosy red, but the next moment 
she turned to Cousin Naomi and began to ask her 
questions about the garden at Gorley. 

Toward the end of the meal Valentin de 
Castelle mentioned something which, he said. 
Monsieur le Prince had shown him the day before 
at the Tuileries. 

“Dost thee really know a prince?” I inquired 
eagerly, unable to keep silence any longer. 

“But certainly, mademoiselle,” he answered, “1 
have known Monsieur le Prince Imperial all my 
life. I like to go to the Tuileries,” he continued, 
“I like to see the Empress, she is so beautiful. 


CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE 177 


She reminds me of maman, only of course she is 
older.” 

“Tais-toi, Valentin,” commanded Madame de 
Castelle, smiling. “You talk foolishly, and you 
will be making me quite vain.” 

Her son shrugged his shoulders. “Truth is 
never foolishness, petite maman,” said he; and 
then he turned again to my father, who answered 
him as though he liked him for being so fond of 
his stepmother. 

Dejeuner was soon over, and my father, ob- 
serving that we had already trespassed too long on 
Madame de Castelle’s kindness, asked her to be 
good enough to allow her footman to call a fiacre. 

“Words are poor things,” said he, “but I fear I 
shall find no other way of thanking you, madame, 
for your great goodness” ; and he glanced a little 
wistfully around the beautiful dining-room as he 
spoke. 

“Your best way of thanking me,” replied my 
beautiful lady, “if thanks be necessary, which I 
doubt, will be by letting your little daughter come 
to see me as often as possible.” 

My father shook his head with a half smile. 
“We move in different worlds, madame. I am a 
plain British merchant, and my walk of life is far 
removed from such as you.” 

Madame de Castelle flushed. “You did not talk 
thus eleven years ago,” she said reproachfully. 

“I was young then,” replied my father, “young 
and foolish, and I did not understand that in this 
world certain things are impossible. It would be 
sad indeed, madame, if eleven years did not bring 
with them a certain measure of wisdom.” 


178 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“It is then adieu/* exclaimed Madame de Cas- 
telle in a low voice. My father bowed silently, 
and I, who had been an eager spectator of the 
little scene, could keep silent no longer. 

“Dost thee mean I am not to see Madame de 
Castelle again?” I inquired anxiously. “Oh 
father, and I love her so. I want to come to this 
nice house to see her, and I want to see Monsieur 
Valentin again also. He is kind and I like him.” 

“Say good-bye. Silence, and come along,” ad- 
monished my father gravely. “Little girls cannot 
have everything they want in this world.” 

“Good-bye, dear, dear madame,” I exclaimed, 
throwing my arms round her neck. “When I go 
out I shall always watch for thee, and I shall think 
of thee, oh! ever so often, and of Monsieur 
Valentin also.” 

“Good-bye, cherie,” whispered my beautiful 
lady. “I shall never forget my little grey girl.” 

I looked up at the tall footman, whom I could 
scarcely see through the mist of tears which 
dimmed my eyes. “Good-bye, Monsieur Michel, 
I thank thee very much for helping to find my 
father.” 

What the footman said, or how he looked, I 
know not, for, as I turned and offered my hand to 
Monsieur Valentin, I began to cry in good earnest. 
“I would like to come again to look at the steam- 
boat and engine,” I sobbed, “but I must not. Oh ! 
father, I do think thee might let me come. I won’t 
give any trouble, I promise thee. Truly I won’t.” 

“Come at once when I tell thee. Silence,” com- 
manded my father; and I v;as led away out of 
the house sobbing bitterly. 


CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE 179 


Once inside the fiacre, Cousin Benjamin, dis- 
tressed beyond measure at the sight of my tears, 
took me upon his knee and kissed me fondly. 

“What have they been saying to make the child 
cry, Sylvester?” he inquired reproachfully. “She 
is a good child and does not cry without reason.” 

“But she must learn that when I say a thing I 
mean it,” replied my father. “She should not tease 
to go and see Madame de Castelle when I explain 
that it is impossible.” 

“But why should it be impossible?” inquired 
Cousin Benjamin, mildly surprised. “So far as I 
can understand Madame de Castelle wishes the 
child to visit her, and there can surely be no diffi- 
culty about arranging such a visit. I myself will 
gladly take her to the house so long as I am in 
Paris.” 

“If thee had understood French,” replied my 
father, a little stiffly, “thee would have heard me 
explain the difference in our ranks, Benjamin. The 
Comtesse de Castelle is a great lady. What has 
she in common with plain business men and their 
families?” 

“But thee knew her years ago, and thee was 
just the same then as now, father,” cried I, sitting 
up in sudden excitement. “Thee must have known 
her very well, because she told Monsieur de 
Briennais that she used to love thee better than 
anyone else in the world, and that was the reason 
she invited me to see her, just because I am thy 
little girl.” 

There was a dreadful pause. Nobody said a 
word, but I could feel Cousin Benjamin’s knees 
begin to fidget under me. “She will think now 


i8o 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


that thee cares nothing at all about her,” I con- 
cluded mournfully, ‘‘and it must be dreadful to 
like anybody very much and not be liked back. 
Don’t thee think so, Cousin Benjamin?” 

Cousin Benjamin coughed, cleared his throat, 
but said never a word; Cousin Naomi, staring 
through the window, began to talk very fast about 
the trees in the streets, and all the rest of the drive 
she spent in speculation as to how they kept their 
green freshness in the midst of a city. 

There was that in all their faces which made 
me unwilling to speak again, and feel somehow 
as though I had said something wrong, though for 
the life of me I could not imagine what. Doubt- 
less I had done wrong in speaking at all. At 
Gorley I had got into the habit of chattering, un- 
checked by either of my cousins; but my father’s 
presence brought the memory of my mother and 
Sarah very close to me, and how seldom a week 
had passed without my being reminded by one or 
other of them that, “little girls must be seen and 
not heard.” 

I felt strangely subdued as I got out of the cab 
at the door of my father’s lodging, and trotted 
upstairs to the third floor, where Madame Verlet, 
his landlady, owned her appartement. The 
stone staircase was dark after the glare in the 
street outside, and for one moment I clung to 
Cousin Benjamin’s hand, overcome by a feeling of 
nervous terror. 

“Cousin Benjamin,” I whispered, “I feel as if 
all sorts of queer things are going to happen.” 

“I hope not, child,” replied my cousin mildly, 
“to my mind we have had enough of strange hap- 


CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE i8i 


penlngs since we got to Paris. We want no more 
of them.” 

“I don’t mean those sort of queer things,” I 
answered impatiently. ‘T mean — oh! I don’t 
know what I mean, only the feeling came over me 
all at once that Paris is a strange place — a sort 
of prison.” 

“A prison! Tut, tut! Tut, tut!” exclaimed 
my cousin, “I only wish I had thought of bringing 
a bottle of my herb medicine with me. Silence 
child. Thou shouldst have a dose of it without 
delay.” 

A better tonic was however awaiting me at the 
top of the stairs in the person of my father’s land- 
lady, for it would have needed a gloomy mind 
indeed to dwell upon prisons or miseries of any de- 
scription in Madame Verlet’s company. She was 
a very fat woman, neat as a new pin, with plump 
red cheeks, black bright eyes and a red button of 
a mouth ; and when she laughed, which was nearly 
all the time, the skin around her mouth and eyes 
became creased with innumerable tiny wrinkles. 

She had me in her arms in a trice, and imprinted 
a resounding kiss on each of my cheeks. “V’la la 
petite mademoiselle,” cried she, “who must be 
worn out after her travels across the treacherous 
ocean. Ah ! that ocean. I did but once spend half 
an hour upon it. And the agony ! The anguish ! 
Mon dieu ! but I shall nevaire forget, nevaire !” 

She led us into a comfortable sitting-room and 
pointed to the center table, which was covered with 
a variety of dainty cakes and biscuits. 

“Messieurs et mesdames are doubtless starv- 
ing,” she exclaimed, “but that can soon be 


i 82 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


remedied. It is, helas ! three hours past the time 
of dejeuner, but coffee will be served immediately 
— a’l’instant. Mignonette — Mignonette, the coffee 
— vite, vite! The travelers are hungry.” 

It was useless protesting that we were not 
hungry. Madame Verlet could never believe that 
anybody who entered her house was not fainting 
for immediate sustenance, and hardly had she 
finished speaking before a girl danced rather than 
walked into the room carrying a steaming coffee 
pot. She was short and slight, with black curly 
hair, rosy cheeks and sparkling dark eyes, the 
merriest looking girl I had ever seen. She was 
about sixteen or seventeen years old, and was 
dressed in a neat green cotton gown with dainty 
white cap and apron. 

“V’la, ma fille,” exclaimed Madame Verlet, 
waving her hands toward Mignonette, who curt- 
sied, smiled, and said “Bonjour, monsieur et mes- 
darhes,” and was just about to trip away when a 
little rough white terrier dashed into the room, 
and, espying the sugar basin, threw himself upon 
his hind legs, waving his fore paws in mute sup- 
plication. 

“V’la, Corps de Garde,” cried Madame Verlet. 
“Ah! but he is the naughty one! Always after 
the sugar bowl.” 

“Oh! the dear little dog!” I cried in ecstasy. 
“Let me give him some; oh! please do let me. 
Come, Corps de Garde, thee shall have thy sugar.” 

“Attention, Corps de Garde!” exclaimed 
Madame Verlet, and Corps de Garde sat up stiff er 
and straighter than ever, while I put a large lump 
of sugar in his mouth, which, having swallowed, 


CORPS DE GARDE AND MIGNONETTE 183 


he placed his fore paws upon my shoulders and 
sealed our friendship by solemnly licking my nose. 

“He is a dear little dog,” I observed, then 
added thoughtfully: “What a nice world it is. 
Everybody is good and kind, except Felix Le- 
blond; and the only sad part Is that I may not go 
and see the very nicest people in it, my beautiful 
lady and Monsieur Valentin.” 

My father and cousins gazed in silence at their 
coffee cups, and answered me never a word. 


CHAPTER XIX 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 

“Silence, child, I want to talk to thee.” 

I was seated on the floor, my arms clasped 
tightly round the neck of Corps de Garde, but at 
the sound of my father’s voice I jumped up, ran 
across the room, and stood beside his chair, all 
attention for what he might have to say to me. 
My cousins, tired out, had gone to bed early and 
we had the room to ourselves. 

“What a big girl thee’s growing,” observed my 
father as he lifted me on to his knee. “Too big, I 
fear, to be father’s baby much longer.” 

“I shall never be too big to sit on thy knee,” I 
exclaimed, kissing him, “unless I should grow fat 
like Madame Verlet. I should be too heavy for 
thee then, father.” 

“I see no signs of that at present,” he answered 
laughing. “But, Silence,” he continued gravely, 
“as thee grows big thee must grow good. Thee 
must not chatter too much, nor too fast, child.” 

I hung my head. 

“Thee must also learn never to repeat what thee 
overhears other people talking about. It is dis- 
honorable. I am sure that Madame de Castelle 
did not intend thee to hear what she was saying 
to her brother.” 

“I did not listen,” I assured him. “Monsieur 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 185 

de Briennais spoke to madame in French, and she 
answered him, and then I told them that I could 
understand what they were saying.” 

“That was quite right,” replied my father, “but 
now thee must try thy best to forget what thee 
overheard by accident, and certainly never repeat 
it again.” 

“I am sorry, father,” I answered humbly. “I 
don’t want to be naughty. I want to grow up to be 
exactly like thee, and Cousin Benjamin, and my 
beautiful lady. But when thee said I shouldn’t 
see her again it made a lump come in my throat 
just here, and then I remembered how she said she 
loved thee, and I talked without thinking.” 

“Poor child, it must have seemed unjust to 
thee,” he exclaimed in a low voice, then added 
aloud : “Listen, Silence, I am going to explain to 
thee why I do not think it is desirable that thee 
should visit at the Hotel de Castelle.” 

I listened with all my ears. 

“Madame de Castelle loves thee, I am sure,” he 
continued, “and she speaks the truth when she 
says she would be glad to see thee at her home, 
and me too, for the sake of the old days when we 
were friends together. But she does not live alone 
with her stepson. Silence. Her brother, Antoine 
de Briennais, lives with her, and he does not like 
me, nor think me good enough to visit with his 
sister, who, as I told thee earlier to-day, is a great 
lady by birth and by marriage. Now pride is sin- 
ful, child, as a general rule, but there is one sort 
of pride which is right and which we call self- 
respect; and self-respect forbids me to visit, or to 
let thee visit, at a house where we should not be 


i86 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


made welcome by its master. Thee understands, 
Silence?” 

‘T understand, father,” I replied slowly. “Thee 
hast spoken almost exactly the same as Felix Le- 
blond that afternoon in the Green Lane at Gorley. 
He said that if thee had married Madame de Cas- 
telle it would have been a bad thing for her family, 
and that such as we were not fit to be friends with 
her.” 

“The impudent rascal!” muttered my father. 
“Thee gave him no answer I hope, child?” 

“But I did,” I replied energetically. “I told 
him that thee wast better than he ; and then he said 
that if I talked so any more he would hurt Cousin 
Benjamin — and oh! but I was frightened.” 

My father put me hastily from his knee and be- 
gan walking up and down the room. “How did 
[Robinson ever come to let him get hold of that 
money?” he exclaimed, more to himself than to 
me. 

“Cousin Benjamin liked Felix Leblond because 
he drank his herb medicine,” I observed. “Will 
thee be long in getting the money back, father?” 

“How am I to get it back?” exclaimed my 
father irritably. “I don’t know where Leblond 
is at present. I paid him off, and hoped I had 
done forever with the fellow, and now ” 

“But thee will try hard to get it?” I exclaimed 
in consternation. “Poor Cousin Naomi! She 
looks so sad when she talks of that two thousand 
pounds.” 

“Thy cousins are not fit to have the handling 
of money,” replied my father. “I shall do my best 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 187 

for them, of course, but how to manage I can’t 
think. I have absolutely no hold on Leblond.” 

He continued walking up and down the room, 
and I curled myself up in his chair, while little 
Corps de Garde crept to my side and poked his 
cold nose into my hand. 

“Father,” said I presently, “do dreams come 
true sometimes?” 

“I don’t know — I never heard of such a thing,” 
he replied. “What makes thee talk so, child?” 

“Dost thee remember the dream I had at Burs- 
field?” 

“I hope thee’s not going to dream again,” ex- 
claimed my father anxiously, putting his hand 
upon my forehead. 

“I don’t think so,” I answered, “but I had for- 
gotten all about that dream until to-day, and then 
I suddenly felt as if it were going to come true 
very soon.” 

“Thee must get to bed without delay. A rest 
is what thee wants,” replied my father. “Why, 
it is actually past nine o’clock. Come and say 
good-night, little one. Sleep well, and God bless 
thee.” 

“Madame de Castelle said, ^God and His Holy 
Mother bless and protect thee.’ Was that wrong, 
father?” 

“The Roman Catholics pray to the Virgin and 
the Saints,” replied my father; “but we Prot- 
estants, who believe that God is all-powerful, are 
satisfied with asking His help alone.” 

“It sounded nice as she said it,” I observed 
thoughtfully; “and as I haven’t got a mother I’d 


i88 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


like to think that God was letting a lady look after 
me sometimes.” 

‘‘Have it thy own way, child,” said my father 
hastily. “I am sure that the Mother of God has 
plenty of love in Her heart for motherless bairns 
like thee.” 

So I trotted off to bed, and Mignonette helped 
me to undress, and my dreams, instead of being 
nightmares, were all about her and little Corps de 
Garde, while the Virgin came and bent over me, 
and, though her dress was like the dress of the 
lady in Gorley Church window, her face was the 
face of my beautiful lady, Madame de Castelle, 
and she whispered: “Don’t cry, little grey girl; 
we shall meet again, you and I and Valentin, but 
not yet.” 

I expect the wish was father to the thought, or 
rather dream, but at all events I got up next morn- 
ing feeling much comforted, and I rose and 
dressed with alacrity, then ran cheerfully into the 
sitting-room to find my father and cousins in 
solemn conclave; while Madame Verlet stood by 
the door, hot and breathing hard, as though 
wearied by overmuch conversation. 

There was silence as I came into the room, and 
all fixed their eyes upon me in a manner which 
made me feel very uncomfortable, just as though 
I had done something wrong; and then Madame 
Verlet shrugged her shoulders, threw out her 
hands and exclaimed under her breath, “C’est qa, 
justement! Confess then, messieurs et madame, 
that I do but speak the truth I” 

“Good-morning, father,” said I, advancing 
timidly, while Cousin Benjamin, who stood staring 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 189 


solemnly at me over his spectacles, which he wore 
at the extreme end of his nose, observed: “I have 
always considered it heavy and unhygienic in the 
extreme. Young people should be free as air. 
Young people should ” 

“We have been talking about thy dress, 
Silence,” interposed my father. “This good 
woman (motioning toward Madame Verlet) is of 
opinion that the style is hardly suitable for the 
streets of Paris.” 

“Understand me, messieurs et mesdames,” pro- 
tested the landlady, “I have nothing to say as to 
the quality of the material. That silk, par ex- 
ample — it is of surpassing richness. Vraiment 
c’est a merveille ! But the fashion after which it 
is made ! English, I suppose, since the like of it 
has never been seen in Paris. It will expose 
mademoiselle to insolence in the streets, which 
is a thing not to be thought of for a mo- 
ment.” 

“They laughed at me in England also,” I an- 
swered. “My clothes are not English at all, 
madame. It is only the Friends who dress like 
this.” 

Madame Verlet shook her head, evidently not 
understanding a word of my explanation. 

“It was at Gorley, I suppose, that the people 
laughed at thee, child,” suggested my father. 

“And at Bursfield, too,” I answered promptly. 
“But never when thee or mother were with me, 
father. The girls at school called me outlandish, 
and the boys in the street used to call after me : 

“Thou, thou Quaker don’t thou me, 

I wasn’t born to be thou’d by thee.” 


190 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“And, why, pray, did thee never tell me all 
this?’’ he inquired sternly. 

“Mother said I mustn’t mind what ill-mannered 
children said to me. She said I must just bear it, 
for the sake of — for the sake of — I forget exactly 
what she said I must bear it for, father.” 

“Why,” exclaimed Cousin Benjamin, “the poor 
child has been bearing persecution for the sake of 
she knows not what I” 

“I wish I had known of this sooner,” exclaimed 
my father, “but I am thankful it is not too late. 
There must be an alteration immediately. What 
dost thee think, Naomi?” 

“I am quite of your opinion, Sylvester,” replied 
my cousin. “Young people should be dressed so 
to attract as little attention as possible.” 

“A style of dress, neat and rational, and, as far 
as possible, similar to that of other children in her 
station of life is what I would recommend,” sug- 
gested Cousin Benjamin. “An old fogey like my- 
self doesn’t mind what he wears so long as he is 
comfortable. But bless my soul ! we must expect 
the young folk to like a bit of finery.” 

“Am I really to be dressed like other girls?” I 
exclaimed breathlessly. 

“After the present fashion, yes, but plainly of 
course,” replied my father. “I couldn’t bear to 
see my little grey dove coming out like a peacock. 
Cousin Naomi and Madame Verlet will, I dare 
say, be good enough to choose something suit- 
able.” 

“And the color?” inquired Madame Verlet, in 
a state of high gratification. “Bismarck brown 
with a touch of crimson is very neat — and chic; 
believe me it is chic.” 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 


191 

“May I have grey?” I asked for a moment’s 
pause. “Not dark grey like this, but still grey?” 

“But would thee not rather choose some other 
color, child?” inquired Cousin Benjamin, who was 
evidently in a state of great excitement at the pros- 
pect of my new dress, and keenly desirous that I 
should have something I really liked. “Did I not 
hear thee admire Dr. Thompson’s daughter’s 
gown the other day at Gorley? I quite forget the 
color, but I remember it was not grey.” 

“It was blue,” I replied promptly, “a beautiful 
blue. I did like it ever so much; but now, if thee 
pleases, father, I would rather have grey.” 

“Grey let it be by all means,” answered my 
father. “But what has made thee alter thy mind 
so quickly. Silence? I should have thought thee 
would have liked a change after wearing the same 
color all thy life.” 

“And it is natural for young folk to like 
change,” continued Cousin Benjamin. “Speak out, 
child, and tell us why is thy heart so set upon 
another grey gown?” 

“Madame de Castelle calls me her grey girl,” I 
answered after a little hesitation. “I shouldn’t 
be that any longer if I wore a blue dress, and ‘blue 
girl’ sounds horrid. Besides, she would not know 
me in the street if she saw me in any other color; 
so if thee dont mind I’d like to stick to grey, 
father.” 

“I and thy Cousin Naomi will begin to be 
jealous if thee thinks so much of this new friend 
of thine,” exclaimed Cousin Benjamin, pretending 
to look very serious. 

“Dear, dear Cousin Benjamin, don’t thee ever 
talk like that again,” cried I, jumping upon his 


192 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


knee and hugging him. ‘T love thee best of all, 
after father — truly I do. Thee can’t think ho’uc 
I love thee.” 

“God bless thy faithful little heart, I did but 
jest,” exclaimed Cousin Benjamin, blowing his 
nose loudly as he spoke. “It’s a poor heart that 
has not room for more than one love inside it. 
For all thy sober gowns thee’s been a bit of sun- 
shine in an old man’s life, little one, and there’s 
not a day passes that he doesn’t bless thee for it.” 

And then Cousin Benjamin wiped his spectacles 
and kissed me fondly, and so did Cousin Naomi 
and father; and Madame Verlet did more than 
kiss me, she embraced me, straining me to her 
capacious bosom, and promising volubly the while 
that, with Cousin Naomi’s valuable help and that 
of her daughter. Mignonette, the new grey gown 
should be a work of art, a chef d’ oeuvre, a verita- 
ble triumph! 

“Are we not to be Friends any longer, father?” 
I asked later in the day when we were left alone 
together. 

“Is it because thee’s going to have a change of 
gown that thee asks me that. Silence?” 

“Because of that and other things, father. Thee 
called Madame de Castelle ‘you’ instead of ‘thee 
and thou,’ also thee said ‘madame’ when thee 
talked to her.” 

“I hope we shall always believe and practice 
those virtues which make the Society of Friends a 
people to be admired and respected,” replied my 
father; “but in the eye of God it is surely of small 
consequence whether we speak to each other in the 
singular or plural person, and it is certainly an un- 


I MOVE WITH THE TIMES 


193 


desirable thing that a little girl should be Insulted 
In the street because of her peculiar clothing, 

“Thy dear mother spent all her life In Burs- 
field/’ continued my father after a pause. “Had 
she found herself in our position I am sure she 
would have thought It necessary to move with 
the times.” 

I wondered In my heart of hearts whether she* 
would or not, but naturally I did not contradict 
my father. 

“Thee must always strive to remember every- 
thing she taught thee,” he admonished me, “and 
I am sure she never failed to Impress upon thee 
that thee must never wilfully hurt another’s feel- 
ings.” 

“She often told me that,” I agreed. 

“If a man neglected to call a French woman, a 
stranger, ^madame,’ and used the familiar ‘thou’ 
in speaking to her, it would be considered a dis- 
courtesy and wound her feelings sadly,” continued 
my father. “Therefore always remember, child, 
that though father loves the Society to which 
mother belonged, yet for the sake of others it is 
sometimes necessary to break some of its rules 
and regulations.” 

So ended my father’s little sermon, and as he 
was not at all given to preaching it made all the 
greater impression upon me. I thought enthusias- 
tically how much more agreeable was his religion 
than that of Friend Bartlett, who had not scrupled 
to wound Ruth Quin’s feelings in the matter of her 
new cap ; and with what joy I hailed the prospect 
of moving with the times, and of stepping forth 
from my Quaker-shell, just an ordinary nineteenth 
century English girl. 


CHAPTER XX 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 

I remember once, when I was about eight or 
nine years old, I went to spend the afternoon with 
a schoolfellow who lived just outside Bursfield, 
and who was fortunate enough to have a little gar- 
den of her own. It was a brilliant summer day; it 
had been hot for weeks, but this was the hottest 
day of all, and as soon as we had finished tea, and 
the sun had begun to go down, my friend suggested 
that we should go and water her garden. 

We were both uncommonly happy and busy 
with a couple of small cans, when Lucy’s father 
came out of the house and asked her what she was 
about. 

“It’s waste of time watering to-night,” said he, 
“for look at those clouds coming up. There will 
be any amount of rain presently.” 

But Lucy was not to be convinced. “The sun 
is shining yet, father,” said she, “and it feels as if 
it were never going to rain again.” 

And so saying she refilled her watering can, and 
was presently as busy as ever. 

But in another half hour the rain came in de- 
luges, and thunder and lightning with it. It 
flooded Lucy’s garden — oh! how small did our 
poor little efforts with the watering can appear in 
comparison with these torrents — it continued 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 195 

storming during the whole of that evening, so that 
I had to be taken home in a cab; and upon the 
morrow it settled down into a steady downpour 
which lasted for several days. 

I have often thought that the history of my 
evening in Lucy’s garden was very much the same 
as the history of my first three weeks in Paris, 
which was made up of things which looked very 
small in the light of after-events. 

We had discussed, you will remember, the giv- 
ing up of the use of “thou” and “thee,” as though 
the fate of nations depended upon the use of the 
singular or plural, and my new dress had been a 
subject of the most momentous consideration. My 
cousins waited in daily expectation of news of 
Felix Leblond, but no one could tell anything 
about him, and his absence from Paris appeared 
to be the one thing certain. My father was not 
as sympathetic over the affair of the two thousand 
pounds as he might have been. I am perfectly 
certain that he never, for a moment, intended that 
Cousin Benjamin should be the loser, even though 
he should have to make up the sum out of his own 
pocket; but it was an incomprehensible thing to 
him how any man could trust a stranger with his 
entire fortune, and he simply hadn’t the patience 
to discuss the situation calmly. Had Cousin 
Naomi appeared sad or anxious he would have 
been very sorry for her, and would have done all 
in his power to comfort her; but she never com- 
plained, was invariably cheerful, and it was only 
when I was alone with her that her face would 
seem sad and old and careworn, while she would 
sigh deeply, and show by her weary restless man- 


196 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


ner how heavily time hung upon her hands, away 
from her beloved garden at the dear White Gorley 
Cottage. 

One could not describe Cousin Benjamin, either, 
as being in his element in Paris, but he fared 
better than Cousin Naomi, because he daily in- 
sisted upon visiting the kitchen and assisting in 
the preparation of the vegetable courses for 
dejeuner and diner. It was at this time that my 
father, knowing nothing of the new assistant chef, 
began to complain how deplorably Madame 
Verlet’s cooking was falling off, but the good 
woman, who loved Cousin Benjamin, always in- 
sisted that he was making great progress; and 
I have known her set to work in breathless haste 
to concoct a fresh dish as soon as my cousin’s back 
was turned, while his own burnt effort had to be 
thrown away, because even little Corps de Garde 
turned contemptuously from it. Every fine after- 
noon Corps de Garde, Mignonette and I would 
go for a walk in the Bois de Boulogne. We would 
saunter round the lake and watch the smart car- 
riages with the beautifully dressed ladies inside 
them, and Mignonette would point out the car- 
riage she would like if she were rich, her choice in- 
clining to a barouche, drawn by black horses and 
driven by servants in canary-colored livery, while 
I preferred a pair of chestnut ponies, in a tiny 
phaeton, which I decided I should learn to drive 
myself were I the proud possessor. 

Upon one subject we were in complete agree- 
ment, namely, that there never had been, never 
would be, never could be, another such dog as 
Corps de Garde. It was not that we were es- 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 197 

peclally proud of his personal appearance, which, 
indeed, was a matter of constant disappointment 
to both of us. I have described him as white, and 
he ought to have been white ; but, in spite of cease- 
less attention on both my own and Mignonette’s 
part, he persisted in remaining dingy. Twice a 
week I invested part of my pocket-money in dif- 
ferent soaps, which guaranteed that after use 
Corps de Garde should be metamorphosed into 
a state of snowy whiteness; twice a week did 
Mignonette and I, full of hope, plunge him into 
a steaming tub frothy with soapsuds — Corps de 
Garde, whe did not love washing, submitting the 
while with an air of gloomy pessimism which 
seemed to foretell the result, which was invaria- 
bly a disconcerting cream color. No, assuredly 
Corps de Garde could not vie in appearance with 
the hundreds of other dainty lap-dogs which, 
curled and be-ribboned, daily took the air in their 
mistress’s carriages. But his loving ways ! Could 
any of those spoilt pets have compared with him 
in them ? I don’t think so. Why, he was the first 
at my door in the morning, scratching with all his 
might at the panels, all alert and eager to wish me 
good-day, which he did by means of a lick on my 
bare foot which tickled dreadfully. And when any 
of us returned after a mere half day’s absence how 
he would bark and leap and nearly go mad in his 
delight at seeing us safe at home once more. 
Dear little Corps de Garde, what a lot I have 
written about him, but I can’t help it. I did love 
him so. 

He always went with us on our walks, and we 
were all so happy together, and the ladies in the 


198 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


carriages looked very gay and light-hearted. 
There was any amount of chattering and laugh- 
ing in the bright sunshine, and no one appeared 
to heed a cloud which was slowly but surely arising 
above the horizon, and which bore, written across 
its ominous blackness, three flaming letters which, 
put together, spelt one of the most terrible of 
words. I mean the word “WAR.” 

There came a day, it was I remember the four- 
teenth of July, nearly a fortnight after I had begun 
to wear my new clothes, that Mignonette and I set 
forth upon an errand of mercy, to carry soup to an 
old man, a pensioner of Madame Verlet’s. He 
had formerly been a porter of the building where 
was our appartement, but he was past work now, 
blind and crippled with rheumatism; and twice a 
week Mignonette visited him to tidy his poor little 
room, in a cheap quarter of the city, and to take 
him nourishing food. 

It was the first time I had been with her, and 
consequently I did not exclaim with surprise, as 
she did, at sight of a neat closed carriage standing 
before the entrance of the mean building. 

“Regardez done!” commanded my companion, 
“a carriage. Never have I seen such a thing be- 
fore in this quarter.” 

“It looks like a doctor’s carriage,” I suggested. 
“See, there is only one horse, and the coachman 
has a plain livery.” 

Mignonette did not answer. It took all her 
breath for climbing the steep steps leading to her 
old pensioner’s garret. But when we got there the 
old man was not alone. There were two ladies in 
the room with him, and at sight of them Mig- 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 199 


nonette would have withdrawn, but one of the 
visitors, who was taking some money out of a 
purse, looked up and beckoned her to come in. 

“Is it the little Mignonette of whom our old 
friend has just been speaking?” she inquired, 
smiling. 

She spoke to Mignonette, but she looked at me 
as she spoke, and I, fearing she must be mistaking 
us, shook my head. 

“This is Mignonette, madame. I am only 
Silence Strangeways, come to help her carry the 
soup for old Pierre.” 

“Silence, Silence!” she exclaimed, and the 
French pronunciation sounded soft and pretty as 
she said it. “Silence and Mignonette, what quaint 
little names. You are frequent visitors, so our 
old friend tells me.” 

“My mother sends me twice a week, madame,” 
replied Mignonette. “Old Pierre is blind and 
needs what help he can get.” 

“Mignonette is a good little girl,” interposed 
the old man. “I dandled her in my arms when 
she was a baby; she was a pretty baby. And 
merry — mon dieu, but she was merry!” 

“She is pretty now,” replied the strange lady. 
“You are fortunate in your visitor. Monsieur 
Pierre.” 

“She brings me broth and I tell her tales; it’s a 
fair exchange, for I have lived a long life and 
have seen many things,” replied the old man. 

“You have lived through strange times,” ob- 
served his visitor. 

“Long enough to see three crowns topple into 
the mud,” chuckled old Pierre. 


200 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Three crowns topple Into the mud! What 
dost thee mean?” I inquired, drawing a step 
closer, curiosity getting the better of my awe of 
the strangers’ presence. 

The old man rubbed his hands. “I was eight 
years old in ’93,” said he, “and on the twenty-first 
of January I crossed the Place de la Revolution. 
'A bitter morning it was too; and the cold cut 
through my thin clothes like a knife. For I began 
the world very much as I am like to go out of it, 
with uncommonly little between me and starva- 
tion.” 

“And thee saw what?” I whispered. 

“I saw! ma foi, mademoiselle — I saw a king 
stand forth before a multitude, dressed only in his 
shirt and breeches. The next moment, crash ! went 
the little barber, and away rolled his head into the 
executioner’s basket. Crown number one.” 

“How dreadful !” I exclaimed, and Mignonette 
shivered, but the strange lady made a sign (it was 
the sign of the Cross I learnt afterwards) and 
whispered: “God rest his soul!” 

“Seventeen years later,” continued old Pierre, 
“I stood outside Notre Dame and watched the 
Emperor Napoleon come forth in all his glory 
with his newly married wife, the Austrian princess. 
Mon dieu ! that was a sight of sights. But as he 
stepped inside his great gold coach the crown on 
the top of it rolled away into the gutter. Men 
called it an omen — I don’t know. Certain it is the 
Emperor landed at St. Helena.” 

“Crown number two,” I exclaimed. “And the 
third, monsieur?” 

“The third, mademoiselle? Exactly the same 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 201 


thing happened at the present Emperor’s mar- 
riage. I was there. I watched as at the first; 
and ‘sapristll’ said I, ‘there It goes again!’ But 
we haven’t seen the end of Napoleon the third 
yet, heln!” 

The strange lady moved restlessly; she looked 
a little pale, but she was very beautiful and her 
face seemed somehow familiar to me. 

“We must go, we have waited too long al- 
ready,” she exclaimed, turning to her companion, 
who, I noticed, looked desperately uneasy. 

“Bon jour,” said she coldly to old Pierre, and 
then her voice softened as she spoke to us. 
“Adieu, mes enfants. May God and His Saints 
bless and preserve you.” The next moment she 
was gone. 

“Who was that lady, Pierre?” Inquired Mi- 
gnonette eagerly. 

“How should I know, mon petit chou?” replied 
the old man Indifferently. “Some fine lady, anx- 
ious doubtless to make sure of a place In Heaven. 
Regardez done! she has given me twenty-five 
francs. Eh blen ! she does no more than her duty. 
The rich should look after us poor folk.” 

“You are an ungrateful old man,” exclaimed 
Mignonette energetically; “and I didn’t like your 
tale about those three crowns, and I don’t think 
the strange ladles liked It, either. Besides, what 
you said Is nonsense. The Emperor has been 
married nearly twenty years and nothing has hap- 
pened.” 

“Eh blen! we shall see, we shall see,” chuckled 
old Pierre, rubbing his hands. “At least, you will 
see, mon enfant. As for me, I am old. Eighty- 


202 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


five years Is a long life. I have seen more than 
my share already.” 

“I don’t think Monsieur Pierre Is a very nice 
old man,” I observed to Mignonette as we walked 
home together. 

“He Is poor, and old, and blind, you see, 
mademoiselle, and It Is difficult to be pleasant 
under those circumstances,” replied my companion, 
who looked a little preoccupied and did not chatter 
and laugh as usual. “I wonder who that lady 
could be,” she continued presently. “I seemed to 
know her face somehow, and yet ” 

“I thought that too,” I interposed eagerly. 
“She was very beautiful, but then there are many 
lovely ladles In Paris. I’ll tell thee what It is. 
Mignonette, I expect she Is one of those ladles 
whom we have seen so often driving In the after- 
noon in the Bols.” 

“I expect you are right, mademoiselle,” replied 
my companion thoughtfully. 

Arrived at our appartement, however, all 
thought of the strange lady vanished, for Madame 
Verlet met us on the threshold radiant with good 
humor. 

“Go to the salon, ma petite,” she commanded. 
“Go without delay — a I’lnstant! You will hear 
good news.” 

“Oh! madame, what has happened?” 

“Nay, I must not say. Monsieur Robinson was 
just now calling for his little one ; It is for him to 
tell. Go at once, mademoiselle, and share In the 
rejoicings.” 

I rushed full speed to the salon. “Cousin 
Benjamin, Madame Verlet says thee’s got news.” 


THE TALE OF THE TOPPLING CROWNS 203 

“News, bless thy heart, yes, the best of news,** 
cried my cousin, waving a slip of paper round his 
head as he spoke. “I had almost given it up for 
lost, and now it comes back when least expected. 
Oh ! what a lesson to put complete trust in Provi- 
dence.** 

“That is very well, Robinson,** replied my 
father, who was seated near the window, an en- 
velope in his hand. “But I hope thee will save 
thyself trouble in future by putting less trust in 
thy fellow-men.** 

“Nay, nay, Sylvester,** exclaimed Cousin Ben- 
jamin reproachfully, “is this not a positive proof 
that my trust was not misplaced?’* 

He waved the paper again as he spoke, and I 
glanced in trembling excitement from him to my 
Cousin Naomi, who was trying to smile with the 
tears running down her cheeks. 

“Thee’s never got that two thousand pounds 
back again?” I exclaimed solemnly. 

Cousin Naomi began to laugh hysterically, and 
her husband threw his arm round me and pointed 
to the slip of paper in triumph. “Here’s the 
check, little one, see for thyself. ‘Pay Monsieur 
Benjamin Robinson the sum of fifty thousand 
francs* (that’s two thousand pounds, child), 
‘signed Felix Leblond.* Hast thee never seen a 
check before?” 

“Thee’s sure it’s all right,” I inquired anxiously. 
“It seems a very little bit of paper for such a lot 
of money.” 

“I think it is all right. Silence,” replied my 
father; “but to make sure I am going to the bank 
at once to cash this check of Leblond’s.” 


204 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Did Felix Leblond bring it himself?” I in- 
quired. 

“That is the extraordinary part,” Cousin Naomi 
answered, speaking for the first time. “Madame 
de Castelle wrote the note accompanying the 
check, and her footman brought it to this apparte- 
ment and handed it to your cousin.” 

“Then my beautiful lady is still friends with 
Felix Leblond,” cried I. “Oh, dear! I wish she 
wasn’t. I do dislike him so much, and so does 
Monsieur Valentin.” 

“Give me the check,” said my father, rising 
abruptly. “I will take it to the bank without 
delay.” 

“May I look at Madame de Castelle’s note?” I 
begged as he left the room. “I’d love to see her 
handwriting. Cousin Benjamin.” 

“The note 1 Certainly thee may see it,” replied 
my cousin. “Stop though — I believe Sylvester has 
it. He has doubtless taken it with him by mistake. 
But Silence, child,” he continued gravely. “I 
hardly like to hear thee speak as thee did just now 
of Felix Leblond. He has at any rate proved his 
perfect honesty by returning the money so 
promptly.” 

And from his further conversation I gathered 
that, though Cousin Naomi’s joy was wholly and 
solely on account of the recovery of the two 
thousand pounds, her husband’s satisfaction was 
largely owing to the fact of Felix Leblond’s turn- 
ing out so much less of a scoundrel than he had 
first supposed. 


CHAPTER XXI 


DECLARATION OF WAR 

My father came back with the money safe in 
his pocket, and at dinner that evening there was a 
great discussion between himself and my cousins, 
the outcome of which was three resolutions. 

It was decided, number one, that Cousin Ben- 
jamin’s two thousand pounds should remain in my 
father’s hands to be invested by him in something 
as remunerative as was compatible with perfect 
safety. This resolution gave entire satisfaction to 
all parties. Number two. Cousin Benjamin was 
determined upon paying a visit to Madame de 
Castelle to thank her for the trouble she had taken 
in sending the money, and to beg her to convey 
his own and Cousin Naomi’s thanks to Felix Le- 
blond. My father objected to this resolution, sug- 
gesting that a note of thanks to the Countess 
would answer all purposes, with a letter enclosed 
for Felix Leblond. His objections were overruled 
however, because Cousin Benjamin was absolutely 
determined upon paying this visit, and I begged 
so hard to accompany him and Cousin Naomi that 
he finally gave way, and it was decided that the 
very next morning my cousins and I should set 
forth to pay a state call at the Hotel de Castelle. 
Everybody seemed satisfied except my father, and 
he looked so tired and careworn that it seemed as 


206 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


though worry had jumped from Cousin Naomi’s 
shoulders on to his own. When I asked him if he 
had the headache he told me not to trouble about 
him as he felt perfectly well, but I could not help 
guessing that in his heart of hearts he was 
troubling about Madame de Castelle’s apparent 
friendship with Felix Leblond. 

My cousins having got back their money there 
could be no reason now why they should prolong 
their visit to Paris, and within ten days an English 
friend of my father’s was intending to return to 
England. He would gladly take charge of the 
three of us, and it was to be hoped that the 
journey back to Gorley would be accompanied in 
greater comfort than the one of a month ago. So 
that, the third resolution decided, only a very few 
days remained for us in the City of Light, as the 
Parisians call their capital; and I made myself 
very miserable anticipating the parting with 
Corps de Garde and Mignonette — quite un- 
necessarily as it turned out, because, as re- 
gards this, our final resolution, we were to 
learn that though “man proposes, it is God Who 
disposes.” 

I felt happy enough, however, as I set out with 
my cousins to walk to the Hotel de Castelle next 
morning. It would have been difficult to have 
been low-spirited in their company, for they were 
both so transparently happy at the prospect of 
soon returning to their beloved Gorley, and Cousin 
Benjamin especially was bubbling over with mirth 
just like a boy. It was a very hot day; Paris 
seemed more excited than usual, and the streets 
and boulevards were thronged with chattering, 


DECLARATION OF WAR 


207 


gesticulating crowds, all very eager and enthusias- 
tic about something which I did not understand. 

Cousin Benjamin thoroughly enjoyed the scene, 
and he said what a glorious thing was the sunshine 
and how it invariably raised the spirits of those 
who were wise enough to come out on purpose to 
enjoy it; and he paid no heed when I suggested 
that possibly Paris had come out of doors for an- 
other reason, as we had had many hot fine days 
lately, during which the streets had not been any- 
thing like so crowded as they were at present. 

We had walked quite a long way before we 
found out that little Corps de Garde was following 
apologetically at our heels, and, when Cousin 
Naomi would have taken him straight back to the 
appartement, he threw himself on his hind legs and 
begged so piteously that the passers-by laughed 
and cheered him; and Cousin Benjamin said that 
upon such a day of days it was a pity not to try to 
make all happy around us, including animals, and 
that Corps de Garde must certainly have his walk 
and come along with us. 

So we all proceeded to the Hotel de Castelle, 
our joy only clouded by the fear (which proved 
unfounded) that we should find Madame la Com- 
tesse not at home; and Michel, the footman, re- 
ceived us, and conducted us to my beautiful lady’s 
boudoir, where we were fated to meet more than 
we had bargained for. I had longed to meet 
Madame de Castelle, I had hoped to find Mon- 
sieur Valentin at home with his mother, but I 
had certainly neither expected nor wished to see 
Felix Leblond keeping my beautiful lady com- 
pany; and yet here he was, lounging in an arm- 


208 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


chair, apparently as much at home as if he were 
the master of the Hotel de Castelle. 

His face looked sallow and haggard, but he was 
very, very smartly dressed, too smartly, in fact, to 
look quite like a gentleman ; and when Michel tried 
to announce us, with very scant success owing to 
our names being difficult for a Frenchman to pro- 
nounce, Felix Leblond stuck an eyeglass in his eye, 
twirled his black mustache and exclaimed: “Ah, 
mon dieu I Voila Mademoiselle Strangeways, and 
the excellent cousins. Monsieur and Madame 
Robinson.” 

My beautiful lady came forward to meet us at 
once, and, though her smile was as sweet and kind 
as ever, it went to my heart to see the sad, sad 
look in her eyes, just such a look as people have 
who are always thinking of something unpleasant. 
Monsieur Valentin, too, was quite different to the 
last time I had seen him; but he looked more 
angry than miserable, and he frowned dreadfully 
as he came forward and shook hands with each of 
us in turn. 

I don’t think my cousins noticed anything amiss, 
because Cousin Naomi, her face wreathed in 
smiles, began to thank Madame de Castelle with- 
out delay, while Cousin Benjamin devoted himself 
to Felix Leblond, wringing his hand, and blessing 
him a hundred times for returning the two thou- 
sand pounds so promptly. 

“Ah ga!” replied the Frenchman, shrugging his 
shoulders. “The money is nothing to me, and 
Madame la Comtesse assured me that it would be 
convenient for monsieur to have it back again. 
Her wishes are my commands, naturellement.” 


DECLARATION OF WAR 


209 


“Come with me, mademoiselle,” observed Mon- 
sieur Valentin under cover of these civilities. 
“Come with me and we will look at the steam 
engine again.” 

I followed him, nothing loth, from the room, 
and as the door shut behind us he stamped his 
foot and shook his fist violently. “It makes me ill 
to be in the room with him,” he exclaimed passion- 
ately, “but I won’t leave him alone with maman. 
I won’t, I won’t!” 

Corps de Garde, who had left the room with 
us, shrank frightened by my side, and my com- 
panion stooped and patted him gently. 

“What a nice little dog he is,” said he. “I 
didn’t mean to frighten him. Is he your own, 
mademoiselle?” 

“He belongs to father’s landlady, but he has 
adopted me,” I replied. “Lick Monsieur Valen- 
tin’s hand. Corps de Garde, and make friends.” 

Corps de Garde obeyed me with right good 
will, and we all three mounted the stairs to Valen- 
tin de Castelle’s room, which looked very much 
the same as I had left it three weeks ago. 

“Does he live here now?” I inquired, lowering 
my voice cautiously. 

“He might just as well live here,” answered my 
companion moodily. “He is in and out con- 
tinually, and he behaves exactly as though he were 
master of the house, curse him !” 

“Don’t thee talk like that,” I exclaimed, 
shocked beyond measure, not only by the boy’s 
strong language, but at the sight of his evident 
misery. “Thee mustn’t say those words, really 
thee mustn’t, Monsieur Valentin.” 


5210 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Why, I thought you disliked the fellow too, 
mademoiselle?” he answered in some surprise. 

“So I do dislike him,” said I energetically. “I 
would be ever so glad never to see or hear of him 
again. But God will punish him if He is angry 
with him, so there is no need to swear about it.” 

“I wish He would be quick about it,” replied 
my companion gloomily. “The sight of Leblond 
makes me furious — but that is nothing. It is the 
thought that he makes maman unhappy drives 
me mad. Oh ! how can my uncle, Antoine, bring 
such a fellow to the house?” 

“It is a pity that thee isn’t grown up, thee would 
be master then of thy own house,” I sighed. 
“Felix Leblond has however returned my cousin’s 
money, which is a good thing. I didn’t think he 
would, and I don’t believe father did, either.” 

“Maman asked him to send it back,” replied 
Monsieur Valentin. “He laughed and said that if 
the old simpleton (meaning monsieur, your cousin, 
mademoiselle) preferred five per cent to fifteen, 
he was welcome to his own again. ‘I will give 
you Monsieur Robinson’s address,’ said maman. 
‘Nay,’ said he, ‘the money will increase tenfold in 
value if received through your fair hands, chere 
madame.’ 

“Then he took his check book out of his pocket 
with a flourish and a gold pen (he is become very 
fine lately) , and he wrote the check and gave it to 
maman, saying : ‘be good enough to send it to the 
old fellow with my compliments, madame,’ just as 
though she were a footman.” 

“He has horrid ways,” I interrupted, nodding 
my head wisely. “I remember them very well at 


DECLARATION OF WAR 


2II 


Bursfield. Does he still bite his nails, Monsieur 
Valentin?” 

‘‘Bite his nails? Yes,” replied my companion 
contemptuously. “But listen, mademoiselle. When 
maman took the paper he seized her hand and 
actually began to kiss it. She looked distressed 
and glanced at my uncle, who was in the room, but 
though he turned very red he said nothing. There- 
fore I got up : ‘Monsieur,’ said I, ‘I believe your 
attentions are distasteful to Madame la Com- 
tesse.’ ” 

“Oh! Valentin, did thee really,” I exclaimed, 
forgetting the ‘monsieur’ in my excitement. “Oh 1 
what did he say?” 

“He said nothing for a moment, but he dropped 
her hand and looked furiously angry. Then he 
shrugged his shoulders, laughed and said, ‘It 
seems I am premature is asking for gratitude’; 
and we were all uncomfortable for the rest of the 
day.” 

“I know that feeling exactly,” I announced. 
“But why should thy mamma be grateful? The 
two thousand pounds are Cousin Benjamin’s, not 
his at all.” 

“I don’t think he meant your cousin’s money,” 
answered my companion slowly. “He looked at 
my uncle as he spoke, and he, my uncle, turned 
quite white. I wish I knew exactly what he 
meant.” 

“I am glad my beautiful lady has thee,” said I 
impulsively. “Thee’s always with her, watching 
her and looking after her. Monsieur Valentin?” 

“But what can I do?” he exclaimed sadly. “I 
am but fifteen, and lame into the bargain.” 


212 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“I don’t know what thee can do,” I replied, 
“But God knows, and I daresay He will let thee 
do something splendid soon. So just thee go on 
loving her and wait and see.” 

“You are the queerest little grey girl,” ex- 
claimed Monsieur Valentin smiling — and when he 
smiled his face lit up like sunshine. “You don’t 
mind my calling you that, mademoiselle,” he 
added politely, “the name exactly suits you.” 

“It is thy mamma’s very own name for me,” I 
replied importantly, “but I don’t mind thee using 
it sometimes. And now let us try to forget Felix 
Leblond for a little while and show me the steam 
engine.” 

It was a good thing we had changed the subject, 
because our bete noire followed us upstairs in a 
very few minutes, and it would have been awk- 
ward if he had found us deep in discussion about 
himself. He moved so silently and stealthily that 
the first sign that he was with us in the room was 
given by Corps de Garde, who growled ominously 
and most unexpectedly, because, as a rule, the 
little dog erred on the side of friendliness and was 
only too pleased to be friendly with strangers. 

“Maman is waiting in the salon for you and 
mademoiselle,” said he to Monsieur Valentin, and 
he spoke familiarly, just as though he were my 
friend’s father or elder brother; and then he 
stooped and tried to pat Corps de Garde. 

But the little dog would have none of his atten- 
tions, and continued to growl, showing his teeth 
and sullenly retreating beneath the table. 

“Surly little beast!” observed Felix Leblond, 
eyeing Corps de Garde in disgust. 


DECLARATION OF WAR 


213 


“He is not surly,” I retorted resentfully. “He 
made friends at once with Monsieur Valentin de 
Castelle.” 

The Frenchman began to smile, that smile 
which I knew so well, which showed all his teeth 
and left his eyes cold and hard. 

“I suppose that is a polite way of saying that 
the dog shows good taste,” he exclaimed, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. “Mon dieu! but you are a 
bitter little girl. Mademoiselle Strangeways. You 
should try to imitate your excellent cousin, who 
has been saying all manner of pleasant things to 
me downstairs.” 

“I didn’t mean to be rude,” I retorted, “and I 
did but speak the truth about the dog when I said 
he was not surly.” 

“I am delighted to hear it,” replied Felix Le- 
blond. “It is a good thing that his nature does 
not correspond with his appearance, which has 
little enough to recommend it.” 

Valentin de Castelle rose from the chair where 
he had been rather ostentatiously fondling Corps 
de Garde after enticing him from beneath the 
table. “Monsieur,” said he, “if you must insult 
any guest of mine, you will be good enough to 
choose another place in which to do it than my 
room or — my house.” 

“Your house!” exclaimed Felix Leblond, *^your 
house! Tut, tut! my dear boy,” he added after a 
moment’s pause, laughing and laying his hand 
with its ragged finger tips upon Valentin’s 
shoulder, “you and Mademoiselle Silence match 
each other in that you can, neither of you, take a 


214 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


joke in good part. And now come along, you have 
kept your maman waiting too long already.” 

He sauntered out of the room, and Valentin 
turned to me, choking with rage and twisting his 
stick convulsively. “I’d like to kill him. Silence, I 
would indeed. I can’t help it. If this stick had 
been a pistol I would have shot him.” 

“Don’t thee say such a thing,” I cried, pale with 
alarm. “That would be murder, and murderers 
are hanged. Only think how terrible ! Felix Le- 
blond can’t help being tormenting. He was 
trying to pay thee out for what thee said 
yesterday.” 

I am sorry to say that the wickedness of har- 
boring murderous feelings never entered my head 
for a moment, so deeply did I sympathize with my 
friend, Valentin, and so cruelly had Felix Leblond 
wounded me in his contemptuous reference to 
Corps de Garde. The fear of the punishment 
succeeding crime terrified me, however, and I gave 
my companion no peace until he had promised 
that, come what might, he would on no account 
raise his hand against our mutual enemy. 

“But it’s war between us, for all that, war to the 
knife,” exclaimed Monsieur Valentin, as we made 
our way downstairs, “I don’t care for a hundred 
Uncle Antoines. I will not pretend to like having 
a fellow like Felix Leblond in my house.” 

Before I had time to answer there was a terri- 
ble noise outside, and Monsieur de Briennais 
rushed through the hall, hot and panting, and 
waving his hat in the utmost excitement. 

“What is the matter, mon oncle?” cried Mon- 
sieur Valentin, forgetting his own injuries for the 


DECLARATION OF WAR 


215 


moment. But Monsieur de Briennais, never heed- 
ing his question, hurried into the salon. 

“It sounds like cheering,” exclaimed my com- 
panion. “Come along, mademoiselle, we will go 
on to the balcony and find out what it is all about.” 

We hurried into the salon as fast as my com- 
panion could limp, only to find that my cousins, 
Madame de Castelle and her brother, together 
with Felix Leblond, were already on the balcony, 
and the two latter were cheering and shouting 
with all their strength, “A Berlin! A Berlin!” 

“It has come then at last,” exclaimed Valentin, 
and waving his stick he joined the two men in their 
lusty chorus: “A Berlin! A Berlin!” 

“What is it? What has come?” cried I, in 
mystification. 

“The saddest of all things human, my child,” 
began Cousin Benjamin, who was surveying the 
laughing, chattering, excited crowd in sorrowful 
bewilderment. 

“Say, rather, the most glorious,” interrupted 
Felix Leblond, turning toward us, his face all 
a-glitter with excitement. “It is war! The 
Declaration of war! War between France and 
Prussia !” 

As I ran to the edge of the balcony the thought 
crossed my mind for a moment what would Felix 
Leblond say if he knew that this was the second 
Declaration of war I had heard within the last 
few minutes. 


CHAPTER XXII 


“a BERLIN ! A BERLIN !” 

In the streets the noise was deafening, and the 
people looked as pleased as though they had heard 
some splendid tidings. It was a sweltering day, 
there is really no other word to describe the in- 
tense heat, but the people didn’t seem to mind it, 
and they jostled one another, and pushed and 
cheered with all their might and main, much too 
excited apparently to feel any discomfort. 

I felt excited and interested too, naturally 
enough, but all the same I could not help being 
surprised at all these extravagant demonstrations 
of delight. “I thought war was a dreadful thing,” 
I exclaimed in a low tone to Monsieur Valentin. 
“Cousin Benjamin thinks so, too. Everybody 
seems pleased. But won’t there be hundreds 
killed and hurt, leaving their relations sad and 
miserable?” 

“Thousands, I daresay,” replied my friend, 
“but think of the glory. Vive la France I A 
Berlin! A Berlin!” 

There came a prolonged burst of cheering 
louder than any that had preceded it, and a car- 
riage came in sight, pulled not by horses but by 
men, and within it sat a lady and gentleman, smil- 
ing and bowing right and left, and (the lady es- 


“A BERLIN! A BERLIN!” 2if 

pedally) looking exceedingly pleased at sight of 
all these loyal demonstrations. 

“Valentin! Valentin! Who Is that lady?” I 
inquired, tugging at his sleeve In great excitement; 
but before he had time to tell me the answer came 
from the multitude below In a great shout of 
“Vive TEmpereur! Vive Tlmperatrlce !” 

“Silence, my child, take care!” exclaimed 
Madame de Castelle, as I hung so far out of the 
balcony as to be In Imminent danger of over- 
balancing myself. 

“But I want to see her. I want to see her,” I 
protested. “Is that really the Empress? To 
think that I talked to her yesterday and never 
knew It!” 

“You talked to the Empress yesterday?” 

Everybody turned from staring at the carriage, 
which was by this time disappearing up the 
Avenue, and looked at me as though I must be 
mad or dreaming. 

“The child must be suffering from a touch of 
the sun,” suggested Cousin Naomi promptly. 
“Come Inside, Silence; It Is too hot for you out 
on this balcony.” 

“If that Is the Empress I talked to her yester- 
day,” I persisted, suffering myself, however, to be 
led Inside the salon. “Mignonette and I went to 
take soup to a poor old man, and she was there 
giving him money. She was plainly dressed yes- 
terday, and she Is fine to-day, but that Is the only 
difference.” 

“The child Is no doubt perfectly right,” ob- 
served Madame de Castelle gently. “The Em- 
press spends many of her mornings personally 


2i8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


visiting and relieving the poor. What did she say 
to you, Silence?” 

“She asked the Saints to protect me and Mi- 
gnonette,” I answered promptly. “Old Piex*re did 
most of the talking. He told a horrid tale. He 
said he saw Napoleon (the Waterloo Napoleon) 
married, and this Napoleon also; and each time 
the crown toppled off the top of the coach. He 
said Napoleon (the Waterloo Napoleon) landed 
at St. Helena, and he wondered what would be the 
end of this one.” 

“The old wretch! What a horrible tale to 
tell!” exclaimed Monsieur de Briennais. “And I 
dare swear there’s not a word of truth in it.” 

“I believe the man is right,” observed his sister. 
“I have heard the Comte de Castelle (your father, 
Valentin) tell exactly the same tale.” 

“The lady, the Empress I suppose, didn’t like 
it,” I interposed. “She turned quite pale and said 
it was time to go.” 

“The fellow deserved horsewhipping,” ex- 
claimed Monsieur de Briennais. “Mercifully we 
of the nineteenth century have outlived supersti- 
tion. Come, mon cher Leblond,” he continued un- 
ceremoniously, “if your throat is as dry as mine 
you will be glad of a cognac.” 

Felix Leblond shook hands with my cousins and 
myself, wished us all a safe return to England 
(and Cousin Benjamin a profitable investment of 
his two thousand pounds), shrugged his shoulders 
and waved his hands toward Corps de Garde, 
who cowered away at sight of him; and, taking 
Monsieur de Briennais’ arm, the two men left the 
room together. 


A BERLIN! A BERLIN! 


219 


“Are you really leaving Paris for England, 
mademoiselle?” inquired Valentin de Castelle, as 
soon as he turned his head from glaring after 
Felix Leblond’s retreating figure. Decidedly my 
friend’s declaration of war had not been accom- 
panied by any such demonstrations of satisfaction 
as signalized the national affair. 

“We are going away in ten days,” I answered, 
sighing. “I was sorry to leave Gorley, and now I 
don’t want to go away from Paris. Isn’t it difficult 
when you love places and people so much that it 
hurts to leave them?” 

My beautiful lady smiled a little sadly. “It 
nearly always hurts to love, little grey girl.” 

“Not half as much as it hurts to hate,” muttered 
Valentin. 

Madame de Castelle understood what he meant, 
and she looked sadder than before. “Valentin, 
Valentin, my dear boy, try not to feel like that,” 
she exclaimed in a low voice, putting her hand 
upon his shoulder. “It isn’t right, indeed it isn’t 
right.” 

“I can’t help it, petite maman,” replied the boy 
in a choked voice. “I hate Felix Leblond, and so 
does Mademoiselle Silence; and even the dog 
cowers away from him.” 

“We cannot, of course, control the hearts of 
animals,” replied my beautiful lady gently, “but 
the Good God has given us a positive command to 
love one another — not only our friends but our 
enemies, Valentin; and after all,” she added, 
“Monsieur Leblond has done nothing so far to 
hurt either of us.” 


220 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“If I live to be a hundred I shall never love 
Felix Leblond,” announced her son resolutely. 

“Nor I, either,” I agreed confidently, “but to 
please thee, madame. Til try to feel sorry for him. 
After all it must be dreadful to be hated by every- 
one except Cousin Benjamin, and he doesn’t count, 
for he loves everybody.” 

“Your cousin is very near the dear God,” re- 
plied Madame de Castelle, and she smiled very 
tenderly at the old man as he came from the baL 
cony with Cousin Naomi, and announced that the 
crowds appeared to be thinning, and that he 
thought we might try to venture home now. 

My tongue knew no rest all the way home, 
although chattering was a matter of considerable 
difficulty because, though the crowds had thinned 
in the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne, they showed 
small signs of decreasing in other parts of the 
city. However, I talked on, and to a most atten- 
tive audience, because poor Cousin Benjamin, 
grieved to the heart at the prospect of warfare^ 
was very ready to seek consolation from any 
source, and the description of how the highest in 
the land found time to personally minister to and 
relieve the wants of the poorest of her subjects 
afforded him the happiest proof of the good to be 
found in human nature; and during the remainder 
of his visit to Paris he could not listen too long 
nor too often to the tale of how the beautiful Em- 
press had climbed into a wretched garret to put 
twenty-five francs into the hand of a blind old 
man. 

During this morning’s walk my story was punc- 
tuated by bursts of cheering, and when compelled 


A BERLIN! A BERLIN! 


221 


to Stop and take breath, owing to an accidental 
push or scramble, the continual cry of: “A Berlin I 
A Berlin!” rang in our ears insistently. 

In the Rue Chaussee St. Antoine shop-keepers 
were preparing for illuminations, which should be 
lit at sundown, just as if it were the Emperor’s 
birthday, and smartly dressed ladies with their 
maids were busily engaged in decorating the bal- 
conies in front of their various appartments. 

Never had I witnessed such gay doings before, 
and full of interest and delight I rushed into the 
salon, eager to find my father, to tell him about 
my meeting with the Empress, and to ask his 
opinion about all the excitement outside. 

He was not in, but I cared very little compara- 
tively, for was there not Mignonette? — Mignon- 
ette who was always ready to wonder and exclaim 
at any piece of news I might have to tell her. 
Mignonette would answer the purpose of listener 
quite as well as my father, and I hurried to 
Madame Verlet’s little sitting-room and knocked 
impetuously at the door. “Mignonette, Mignon- 
ette,” cried I, “may I come in? Oh! I have such 
a lot to tell thee !” 

The door flew open, but I remained spellbound 
upon the threshold, for never in my life had I be- 
held such a vision of magnificence as appeared 
literally to fill and glorify our landlady’s tiny 
room, so that she, stout though she was, seemed 
to sink into utter insignificance, while her daugh- 
ter shrank into the semblance of her own name- 
flower, placed side by side with a gigantic sun- 
flower. 

The vision consisted of a young man, as tall 


222 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


and well developed as my father, and with a 
strikingly handsome face; but I did not notice 
his face much that day for it was his dress, or 
rather uniform, which compelled the whole of my 
attention. 

He was wearing a sky-blue tunic with a scarlet, 
gold-braided collar, and golden epaulettes. Upon 
his breast was a bright steel thing called a cuirass 
bespangled with gold nuts, and his tight breeches 
were of snow white buckskin. His gauntlet gloves 
were white leather also, and his boots, which 
reached above his knees, were so brilliantly pol- 
ished that you could almost see your face in them, 
while shining spurs were attached to the heels. 
He carried in his hand a polished steel helmet, 
with a long, white horsehair plume hanging from 
it, and it had tri-colored side-plumes and a brass 
plate which, I afterwards learnt bore the Imperial 
Crown and initials. 

Is there any wonder that I gasped at sight of 
this gorgeous apparition? 

“Entrez, mademoiselle,’’ exclaimed Madame 
Verlet, too impressed with a sense of the impor- 
tance of the occasion to be as voluble as usual. 
“This is my cousin, Jules Lebreton.” 

Completely tongue-tied I gasped again, and an 
overwhelming wonder swept over me as to why, 
under the circumstances, Madame Verlet conde- 
scended to let apartments. With such a magnifi- 
cent relation, her proper place, thought I, should 
surely be a palace. 

“My cousin is one of His Imperial Majesty’s 
Hundred Guards,” continued Madame Verlet. 
“Is he not truly magnificent, mademoiselle?” 


A BERLIN! A BERLIN! 


223 


Still I could find no words, and I don’t know 
how long I should have remained tongue-tied had 
not Corps de Garde at that moment dashed into 
the salon. He evidently knew and liked Monsieur 
Jules Lebreton, and certainly cherished no sensa- 
tions of awe and wonder at sight of so much glory, 
for he had to be held back from jumping all over 
the uniform, and the way in which the gallant 
soldier protected his white buckskins proved most 
satisfactorily that he was human, after all. 

“This is his gala-uniform,” continued our land- 
lady, “it is the first time he has worn it to visit 
us. Be still, thou naughty one” — to Corps de 
Garde — “be still, I say, or thou shalt be put out 
of the room.” 

“I thought Monsieur must be one of the Emper- 
or’s relations,” I exclaimed, holding Corps de 
Garde firmly by his collar; and all, including Mon- 
sieur Jules Lebreton, looked extremely pleased, 
though they laughed immoderately at such a sug- 
gestion. 

“No wonder French people talk of the glory of 
war if all their soldiers look like thy cousin, ma- 
dame,” I continued, drawing a mental comparison 
between the appearance of this splendid gentle- 
man and the Bursfield volunteers, the sight of 
whom had hitherto constituted my sole experience 
of the military. 

“But all soldiers do not look like my cousin, 
mademoiselle,” replied Mignonette proudly. “It 
is the Hundred Guards only who wear such a 
uniform.” 

The gallant Lebreton smiled and swelled with 
satisfaction, but said never a word. He twirled 


224 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


his mustache and looked at Mignonette, who 
looked at him, while her mother looked at us all 
in turn, and explained what were a few of the 
duties which devolved upon His Majesty’s Hun- 
dred Guards. They did not sound very onerous. 

‘‘Upon a fete night at the Tuileries,” an- 
nounced Madame Verlet, “my cousin and his con- 
freres line the grand staircase — figurez-vous done, 
mademoiselle — and their Majesties pass between 
them.” 

“That was the Empress we talked to yesterday. 
Mignonette,” I interposed. 

More exclamations ! More excitement! — from 
Mignonette and her mother, that is. Monsieur 
Jules Lebreton remained in stolid silence, merely 
reaching to pat Corpe de Garde, whom I con- 
tinued to hold firmly at a reasonable distance from 
the white buckskins. 

“Vive I’Imperatrice 1” exclaimed Madame Ver- 
let in an ecstasy of admiration. “Hurrah for the 
war, which will doubtless bring great glory to the 
country of her adoption — la belle France I” 

“Shall you go to fight in that uniform, mon- 
sieur?” I enquired with interest. 

The gallant soldier shook his head. I discov- 
ered afterwards that all the Hundred Guards 
were non-commissioned officers. 

“My cousin is desole because he cannot go to 
the front,” explained Mignonette. “The Hun- 
dred Guards remain behind to guard Paris.” 

“The poor boy came to receive consolation 
from us,” cried Madame Verlet. “And, ma foil 
he shall have all that he requires.” 


A BERLIN! A BERLIN! 


225 


“It would be a pity for anyone so very splendid 
to be killed or wounded,” I suggested. 

“Mon dieu! quel horreur!” shrieked our land- 
lady, and Monsieur Jules Lebreton rose to go, 
hot and self-conscious, yet nevertheless bearing 
the appearance of one who has been most satis- 
factorily consoled. 

“He is a dear good boy,” observed Madame 
Verlet, as her cousin left the room after success- 
fully resisting a second onslaught from the de- 
voted Corps de Garde, and escorted by Mignon- 
ette, who had been deputed to see him to the door 
of the appartement. “He is indeed a good boy, 
and brave! — ^you cannot imagine, mademoiselle, 
how brave he is.” 

“I never saw anyone so splendid,” I replied. 
“He is exactly like what I imagined kings ought 
to be. He does not talk much, however, does he, 
madame?” 

“He is more brilliant without than within,” ob- 
served Madame Verlet: “but I assure mademoi- 
selle that he is brave indeed and of a wonderful 
goodness of heart.” 

Mignonette was alone in the little salon when I 
sought her out half an hour later, and she was 
standing with her back to the door picking to 
pieces a big white daisy. And as she pulled off 
the petals she muttered: “He loves me — loves me 
not — he loves me — loves me not,” while I watched 
her in silence, not liking to disturb her, and yet 
wondering what could be the meaning of such cu- 
rious conduct. Faster and faster fell the petals,! 
and Mignonette grew flushed and trembling with' 
anxiety. “He loves me — loves me not I He loves^ 


226 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


me — loves me not.’* There was a moment’s pause 
— and then: “He loves me,” cried Mignonette 
with a happy little laugh, just like the trilling of 
a bird, and she danced round the room until she 
suddenly caught sight of me, when she stopped 
short as suddenly as if I had found her out doing 
something wrong. 

“What wert thee doing with that daisy. Mi- 
gnonette?” I enquired, curiously. 

“Only playing a foolish game, mademoiselle,” 
she replied, blushing very red as she spoke. 

“It doesn’t seem very difficult,” I observed. 
“Could I play it. Mignonette? I suppose thee 
thinks of someone while thee pulls off the petals.” 

Mignonette made no answer, but she began 
picking up the fallen petals in a great hurry. 

“It wouldn’t be very interesting for me,” I 
remarked after a moment’s consideration. “I 
could think of Cousin Benjamin and father, and 
of others also, but there wouldn’t be much fun in 
it because I know that they love me.” 

“It is a great thing to be sure, mademoiselle,” 
replied Mignonette; and she ran out of the salon 
blushing and laughing, and looking prettier than 
I had ever seen her. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


I FALL INTO THE WARS 

If it hadn’t been for the thought of leaving 
father and Corps de Garde, I should have enjoyed 
the next few days very much indeed, for all Paris 
appeared to be en fete and there was any amount 
to be seen in the streets and boulevards. 

The weather was beautiful, and nearly all the 
shops were closed for two or three days, while the 
shopkeepers and artisans promenaded the streets 
shouting “A Berlin!” to their hearts’ content. 

The crowds were tremendous. Neither eve- 
ning or morning appeared to make the slightest 
difference to the masses of people who seethed, 
billowed and roared just the same at midday or 
midnight. The illuminations seemed superb to 
me, which was not wonderful considering that I 
had never seen anything of the kind before, but 
I believe that they were really fine. They were lit 
up every evening at sunset, and, when beautifully 
dressed ladies appeared upon their balconies with 
lighted tapers in their hands, the crowds in the 
street below would applaud and shout at the tops 
of their voices: “Les Meres de la Patrie!” Ma- 
dame Verlet’s grocer exhibited a magnificent de- 
vice upon the front of his shop, which, he said, 
should remain there until the Emperor’s birthday, 
upon which auspicious occasion he intended adding 


228 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


another equally beautiful, also fresh devices for 
every fresh victory gained; so that, said Madame 
Verlet, there was every prospect in the not far 
distant future of his shop-front being indeed an 
object of wonder and magnificence. 

Regiments of soldiers left Paris daily for the 
front, and Mignonette and her mother, knowing 
two or three of the men, were anxious to give 
them some small parting gift. Therefore one 
afternoon the former and myself jostled our way 
to a bookseller’s shop, which had an enormous 
strip of calico hanging before it, upon which were 
printed these words: “Dictionary, French-Ger- 
man, for the use of the French at Berlin.” 

We bought three dictionaries for presentation; 
and I was so impressed by the thoughtfulness of 
such a gift that I took the first opportunity of tell- 
ing my father about our landlady’s purchase. 

“Three of Madame Verlet’s friends are going 
to the war,” I announced, “and she and Mignon- 
ette have given them each a present of a dic- 
tionary.” 

“A dictionary!” exclaimed my father. “What 
a strange present! Why should she give them a 
dictionary?” 

“To help them to understand German when 
they get to Berlin,” I replied promptly. “The 
dictionaries are French-German.” 

“Oh! I see,” said my father, coughing drily 
and rustling his paper. “I hope they will find 
them useful.” 

“They are sure to be useful if the soldiers take 
the trouble to learn the German words in them,” 
I replied confidently. “And I think they will, 


I FALL INTO THE WARS 


229 


because, thee sees, father, the dictionaries are 
Madame Verlet’s and Mignonette’s presents.” 

But my father had returned to his newspaper 
and I could not get another word out of him. 

A dreadful thing happened exactly a week after 
the Declaration of War. Cousin Benjamin was 
brought home by a company of gendarmerie, who 
had the utmost difficulty in keeping back a mob of 
angry people who were trying hard to get at him 
to hurt him. His coat was torn, his hat was lost, 
and his cheek was bleeding from a cut where a 
stone had grazed it. You may imagine how 
grieved and shocked we were to see him come 
home' in such a plight, and the police were most 
rude and unsympathetic, and the handsome pres- 
ent of money which my father divided among 
them did not make much difference in their man- 
ners, for they were barely civil as they repeated, 
again and again, that “le vieilard” (meaning 
Cousin Benjamin) had brought ill-usage upon him- 
self entirely by his own folly. And they said that 
he had had a miraculous escape, such an escape 
as did not happen twice in a lifetime, from being 
hanged by the mob a la lanterne, which meant 
upon the most convenient lamp-post. 

They all talked and shouted at once, and poor 
Cousin Benjamin seemed dazed and incapable of 
speech, therefore it was some time before we 
gathered that he had actually dared to raise his 
voice in praise of the blessings of peace while 
walking in the streets, and had thus brought upon 
himself the fury of the warlike populace — which, in 
those early days after the Declaration, would not 
suffer such a word to be mentioned in its hearing. 


230 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Dear Cousin Benjamin sighed heavily after the 
police had clattered away out of the house, and he 
said he had done what he felt to be his duty, sorry 
though he was to have given us all such trouble 
and anxiety; and he was quite ready to acknowl- 
edge that his appeal had been a failure, mentioning 
a verse in the Bible which speaks about “crying 
peace where there is no peace.” My father sighed 
quite as heavily as Cousin Benjamin, observing 
that he supposed remonstrance was foolish, inas- 
much as it was useless to lock the stable door after 
the steed had been stolen, but earnestly entreating 
Cousin Naomi to use all her influence to prevent 
her husband crossing the doorstep during the next 
few days, the last days of our visit. 

There was no such delay, I noticed, on Cousin 
Naomi’s part in the packing-up to go home to 
Gorley as there had been when we left the White 
Cottage. The trunk and portmanteau stood, half- 
filled and ready labeled, three or four days before 
there was any need to think of our journey; and I 
saw her fidgety for the first time, so anxious was 
she that we should not fail to get seats in the train 
upon the appointed day. And indeed there was 
some reason for anxiety, because the trains leav- 
ing every station were packed with foreigners re- 
turning in breathless haste to their own countries, 
with soldiers leaving for the front, and with many 
of the French themselves fleeing as fast and as 
far from all signs of warfare as possible. I often 
wonder why they should have been so anxious to 
get away at this early date,, for practically all the 
Parisians were confident of victory, and one of 
the cab-drivers belonging to a cab-stand near the 


I FALL INTO THE WARS 


231 


Prussian Embassy had refused to receive a fare 
from a young attache whom he had driven to the 
Eastern Railway Station on his way to join his 
regiment. 

“No, monsieur,” said he to the officer, who had 
been a frequent and very good customer, “ a man 
does not pay for his own funeral: and you may 
take it that I have performed that office for you. 
Adieu, monsieur.” 

I packed for myself, bedewing with tears the 
tri-colored bow which Corpe de Garde wore most 
unwillingly upon his collar; and upon the last eve- 
ning Mignonette, Madame Verlet and I all three 
lifted up our voice and wept loudly, because I was 
going away so soon. 

We need not have troubled to cry — on that 
account at least — for a quarter of an hour later I 
espied my father through the window coming 
along the street, and I hurried to meet him “for 
the last time.” Down the stairs I rushed, “pell- 
mell, helter-skelter,” and a dozen steps from the 
bottom I stumbled, tripped up and rolled down to 
the ground, cutting my forehead severely against 
the sharp corner of one of the stairs. 

When my father came in he found me lying all 
in a heap, with blood trickling down my pale, ter- 
rified face, and when he tried to lift me I screamed 
and half-fainted because my ankle was all twisted 
under me, and it was agony to have it touched or 
moved. I suppose my shriek must have been pene- 
trating, for before my father had time to summon 
the concierge for help, the stairs were all alive 
with people from the various apartments, exclaim- 
ing and gesticulating: while high above the rest I 


232 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


could hear Madame Verlet’s voice, broken by 
hysterical sobs, imploring the people to let her get 
to me, and asking to be told the worst — if the 
chere petite were really dead. 

I have a very confused recollection of what 
happened afterwards. My father and the con- 
cierge carried me upstairs, lying full length upon 
a board; and I distinctly remember the former 
angrily telling our landlady not to make such an 
exhibition of herself when she went into hysterics 
at sight of the blood upon my face. It was dear 
Cousin Benjamin who, most unexpectedly, rose to 
the occasion, and proved himself to be a real min- 
istering angel until the concierge returned with the 
doctor. He called for water and bathed my head, 
tying it up carefully with a large handkerchief; 
he cut the shoe and stocking from my swollen, 
throbbing foot, and assured me that I should be 
better in no time because, he thought, the ankle 
was only sprained and not broken. He suggested 
that Madame Verlet should retire to the kitchen 
and set about making nourishing soup without 
delay; but even at that distance we could hear her 
sobs high above the voices which continued to 
chatter upon the landing outside. It is true that 
when I cried out, which I did several times during 
the removal of my shoe and stocking, Cousin Ben- 
jamin’s lip twitched and his eyes watered sus- 
piciously, but he talked more than once about a 
bit of grit which must have got into his eye, a 
most uncomfortable thing to happen to anybody, 
and which doubtless accounted for the water which 
I should otherwise have mistaken for tears. 

When the doctor arrived twenty minutes later 


I FALL INTO THE WARS 


233 


he plastered my head, felt my ankle, and agreed 
with Cousin Benjamin that the latter was very 
badly sprained, but that no bones were broken. 
He said that I must be kept very quiet, because of 
my head and what he called the shock to my sys- 
tem ; and when my father asked him how long it 
would be before my foot would be well enough 
to allow me to travel to England, he shook his 
head and said he really could not tell. It might 
be two weeks, or three, or even four, which in- 
formation made my father exceedingly grave and 
anxious. 

The doctor said I was not in any danger, but I 
felt just as bad as if I were, for my head ached 
and my ankle hurt dreadfully, and I felt so hot 
and miserable that I did not care in the least 
whether I was in Paris or Gorley. My father sent 
out for some beautiful fruit, but I would have 
none of it; little Corps de Garde licked my hand, 
but I took no notice of him; Cousin Naomi tried 
to fan me, but I fretfully told her to stop; and 
Mignonette bathed my hands, and every part of 
my face which was not plastered, with eau de 
Cologne, but I can’t remember that I got any 
relief from it. 

The doctor sent me some soothing medicine 
toward my usual bed-time, and when I had taken 
it I fell asleep. But it was a troubled sleep, for 
I dreamed just as I had dreamed at Bursfield, and 
I woke up, bathed in perspiration and trembling 
in every limb. “Father,” cried I, “the soldiers are 
coming — thousands of them — oh! ever so fast. 
I’m in the middle and they’re fighting all round. 
Oh! what shall we do?” 


234 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


My father and Cousin Naomi were by my bed- 
side in a moment. 

“Don’t thee trouble, child,” exclaimed the 
former. “The soldiers are going hundreds of 
miles away from Paris. Thee will see nothing of 
any fighting.” 

“Then why do I dream such dreadful things?” 
I asked fretfully. “I saw the soldiers fighting in 
Paris; and all the people who are cheering and 
making such a noise now are sad and quiet and 
crying, some of them.” 

“Drink some milk, child, and take no notice of 
foolish dreams,” admonished Cousin Naomi, 
briskly. “I dreamt once that I was turned into a 
cabbage, and that your Cousin Benjamin was going 
to boil me in a pot. I felt very frightened for a 
minute, but think how silly I should have been if 
I had gone on worrying about it.” 

The thought of Cousin Naomi turning into a 
cabbage amused me, and ill as I felt I could not 
help laughing a little. 

“That’s right,” exclaimed my cousin, “always 
try to smile at misfortune, and never trouble 
trouble till trouble troubles you.” 

“But trouble has troubled me,” I protested. 

“It might have been very much worse,” she re- 
plied, “but I am glad to see you have the cour- 
age to smile, child. As for all this nonsense about 
dreams let us hear no more about it.” 

I felt pleased to have earned my cousin’s ap- 
proval, for she was not at all given to flattery, and 
I drank some milk, closed my eyes tightly and 
tried to go to sleep. My accident, however, had 
not dulled my sense of hearing, and I distinctly 


I FALL INTO THE WARS 


235 


heard my father say in a low tone to Cousin 
Naomi: “I would give a hundred pounds if the 
child could leave Paris with thee and Benjamin 
to-morrow.’’ 

“To-morrow?” exclaimed my cousin, “to-mor- 
row ! But of course we shall not think of leaving 
until the child is better and able to go with us.” 

“But indeed thee will leave as arranged,” re- 
plied my father, decidedly. “Not for another 
day will I accept the responsibility of thy hus- 
band’s presence in Paris, Naomi. For the sake of 
his own safety we must get him away without 
delay, though indeed I appreciate thy kindness in 
wishing to delay thy departure on the child’s 
account.” 

“Father,” cried I, for the second time, “father. 
Indeed I’m trying to go to sleep, but — will the 
French people try to hurt dear Cousin Benjamin?” 

“What ears the child has!” groaned my father, 
“I made quite sure that she had dropped off to 
sleep again.” 

“Promise me thee will go back to Gorley to- 
morrow, Cousin Naomi,” I insisted. “Oh! prom- 
ise that thee will start by the very earliest train. 
I couldn’t bear to think of Cousin Benjamin being 
hurt, and father and Mignonette will look after 
me till I’m better.” 

“That’s a sensible child!” exclaimed my father, 
much pleased. “We’ll let thy cousins go home to- 
morrow, and then thee must do thy best to get 
well quickly; and perhaps in a fortnight or three 
weeks father will be able to spare a few days to 
take thee back to Gorley. And” (lowering his 
voice to a solemn whisper) “a little bird has told 


236 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


me that perhaps Corps de Garde may come 
too.” 

“Oh ! father, how nice,” I cried, with a blissful 
sigh. “Thee and I and Corps de Garde to go 
back to Cousin Benjamin and Cousin Naomi I Oh, 
father, I don’t mind the aching half as much now.” 

I fell asleep, building beautiful castles in the 
air about what we would all do in the summer 
days at the White Cottage: but little indeed did 
we dream of the days which were coming, my 
father or I, or anyone in Paris. Well might it 
be said of the highest in the land, as well as of 
our own insignificant selves, that “the best-laid 
schemes of mice and men gang aft agley.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


KISS AND BE FRIENDS 

I felt SO much better the next morning that my 
cousins were prevailed upon to leave Paris with- 
out any great difficulty, and there was compara- 
tively little sadness about our farewells because 
we so confidently expected to meet each other 
again within a very few weeks. 

But as the day wore on it became evident that 
I was not nearly so well as had been thought at 
first. I began to toss about restlessly, my head 
ached badly, something the doctor called “tem- 
perature” became high; and all this trouble was 
owing to the cut upon my forehead and not to 
the sprained ankle, which, though painful and 
swollen, was going on as well as could be expected. 

Madame Verlet had recovered from her fit of 
hysterics, and she and Mignonette nursed me 
night and day; one or other of the two was always 
in my room. But I loved Mignonette the best; 
she was so pretty and bright and coaxing, and I 
would take milk and beef tea from her when 
neither her mother nor my father could persuade 
me to swallow any nourishment. 

I spent a week in bed, and I was too ill the 
first few days to want anything or anybody. The 
third day I struggled against an overwhelming 
longing for Cousin Benjamin; a longing which I 


238 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


had the grace to keep to myself, partly because 
common-sense told me that it would be impossible 
for my cousin to return to Paris on my account, 
partly because the knowledge that he would be in 
danger if he did return made me glad to think 
that he was far away in Gorley. The third day 
the fever had left me, but I was very weak, and 
I cried persistently for my beautiful lady. 

“The chere petite should surely not be crossed,” 
exclaimed Madame Verlet. “Will not monsieur 
have the goodness to send for this lady of whom 
the child speaks so constantly?” 

“Thee needn’t mind thy pride, father,” I sug- 
gested, “because I don’t want to go to the Hotel 
de Castelle. I only want my beautiful lady to 
come and see me here.” 

Weakness is strength sometimes. My father 
did not look by any means best pleased, but he 
wrote a note, dispatched it: and within an hour 
our landlady triumphantly ushered Madame de 
Castelle into the room saying, “V’la mademoi- 
selle, here is some medicine which cannot fail to 
do mademoiselle good.” 

“Madame, dear madame, come and kiss me. 
Oh! I have been so ill,” I cried eagerly. 

“My poor little girl, how sorry I am to see you 
like this?” said she. 

“It is good of you to come so quickly, ma- 
dame,” said my father. “The child cried con- 
stantly for you, and the doctor says she must not 
be crossed.” 

“I am glad to come,” replied Madame de Cas- 
telle simply. “The little one and I are friends, 
n’est-ce pas, cherie?” 


KISS AND BE FRIENDS 


*39 


“I love thee, oh! ever so much, and Monsieur 
Valentin, too,” I assured her, warmly. “Where 
is Monsieur Valentin?” 

“He has gone to the station to see Monsieur 
de Briennais off to the war. The Emperor starts 
to-day with the Prince Imperial, and my brother 
goes with them.” 

“Poor Monsieur Valentin,” said I. “How sad 
he must feel to-day because he is lame. I know he 
wants to go, too.” 

“But Valentin could not go, even supposing he 
was quite well,” objected Madame de Castelle. 
“He is too young, only fifteen years old.” 

“But the Prince Imperial goes.” 

“Because he is the Prince Imperial, the Em- 
peror’s son. The army has no need of young 
boys like Valentin.” 

“Heureusement no,” exclaimed Madame Ver- 
let, who came into the room that moment, and 
always showed a tendency to mingle freely in 
general conversation. “France, grace a dieu 1 has 
no need to ask her young children to bleed for 
her.” 

“Monsieur Valentin is not a child at all,” 
I protested. “He is quite a young man, ma- 
dame.” 

“In courage, doubtless,” replied Madame Ver- 
let. “But at fifteen he is as yet but a tender 
child to his mother, n’est-ce pas, madame?” 

I felt quite indignant on Valentin’s account, es- 
pecially when I remembered how majestically he 
had desired Felix Leblond to refrain from kissing 
my beautiful lady’s hand; but I had too many 
questions to ask to waste time upon further ex- 


240 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


planations, so I turned again to Madame de 
Castelle. 

“Has Felix Leblond gone to the war with 
Monsieur de Briennais?” 

“Certainly not,” she replied, calmly, but I 
thought I saw her wince as she spoke. I believe 
Monsieur Leblond intends to remain in Paris.” 

“Who will be Monsieur Valentin’s guardian 
now Monsieur de Briennais has gone away?” I 
enquired. 

“Is Monsieur de Briennais the Comte de Cas- 
telle’s guardian, madame?” interposed my father 
quickly. 

“Jointly with myself,” replied my beautiful 
lady. “But, of course, Valentin remains in my 
care now his uncle is away.” 

“I’m glad of that,” I exclaimed, heartily. “I 
was afraid that as thy brother was such friends 
with Felix Leblond he might ask him to look after 
Monsieur Valentin, who dislikes him so.” 

“It is true my son dislikes him,” said she, “he 
is a man I do not care about myself. He appears 
to be clever and influential, however, and I un- 
derstand he was your manager, monsieur. I was 
so glad to hear that, but ” 

“I was glad to get rid of him,” exclaimed my 
father. “I am sorry to have to speak ill of any 
friend of your brother’s, madame, but I found 
Felix Leblond utterly unscrupulous in his business 
dealings.” 

Madame de Castelle looked at him intently, 
but said never a word. 

“It is not for me to give advice,” continued my 
father with some hesitation. “But I feel it my 


KISS AND BE FRIENDS 


241 


duty to say that I should not allow Felix Leblond 
to have dealings in any affairs of mine were I you, 
madame.” 

“But I have nothing to do with such affairs,” 
replied Madame de Castelle. “My brother looks 
after all my own, and Valentin’s business.” 

My father turned a troubled face toward her, 
and several moments passed before he spoke 
again. “Doubtless, madame, you have very good 
friends in Paris?” 

My beautiful lady shook her head. “Acquaint- 
ances — many; but for friends, they do not grow 
like summer-roses, monsieur.” 

My father stood up. His hands were trem- 
bling, and I had never seen his eyes so bright 
before. “Madame,” said he, “there is a man 
here upon whom you can always count. After my 
churlish behavior at your house the other day I 
dare not call myself ‘friend,’ but should the time 
come when you need help, you will think of me, 
won’t you?” 

My beautiful lady was standing by his side ; her 
eyes were shining, and her cheeks were flushed 
just like Mignonette’s when she counted the pet- 
als of the daisy. “Sylvester, how glad you make 
me,” she whispered, and my father took her hand, 
bent over it and kissed it, and then walked away 
very quickly to the window. 

I wondered what Monsieur Valentin would 
have said, who apparently objected to hand-kiss- 
ing. But somehow I felt that he would not have 
minded it this time. 

“Kiss and be friends,” cried I triumphantly. 
“That’s what Harriet Field used to say at school^ 


242 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


but she meant kissing each other on the mouth. 
Now you must be friends for always, and I can 
come to see thee and Valentin as often as thee 
chooses to invite me, madame.” 

“But you must make haste and get some roses 
into your cheeks, little one,” said my beautiful 
lady, smiling. “You are a little pale girl now, 
not my grey girl any longer.” 

She left me soon afterwards, promising to re- 
turn the next day, and several times that evening 
my father sighed heavily, and once I heard him 
mutter under his breath, “God help her and the 
lad, too. They are but a couple of children to- 
gether, the two of them.” 


CHAPTER XXV 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 

Here is my letter written to Harriet Field sev- 
eral days later when I was well on the road to 
recovery. It was a mighty effort, taking a great 
deal of time, and covering many sheets of paper 
when finished, so many, in fact, that, when I 
showed the tout-ensemble to Madame Verlet, she 
turned up her eyes, threw out her hands and ex- 
claimed: “But figure to yourself, mademoiselle, 
the postage! Ah! but it is indeed unthinkable.” 

As I had plenty of pocket-money, however, I 
cared little for, our landlady’s objections, and I 
made up my mind that the letter which had cost 
me so much time and trouble during its accom- 
plishment should reach Harriet Field in its en- 
tirety, and shorn of none of its glories. 

“My Dear Harriet: 

“I am writing to thee sitting upon the balcony 
of our apartment (that is the name for lodgings 
in Paris) because I have sprained my ankle 
tumbling downstairs and can’t walk for a good 
many days. 

“I hope thee is well, dear Harriet, and all the 
girls, and please give them all my love and tell 
them that I would rather have a sprained ankle 
in Paris than be quite well in Bursfield. Dost thee 


244 


LITILE GREY GIRL 


remember my birthday, and how thee told me that 
thee didn’t think I should ever go away from 
Bursfield unless I went to a Friends’ School? I 
thought with thee then, but it just shows how 
often people think wrong, because I have helped 
row a boat on the river Thames, and I have 
crossed the sea in a steamboat, and I have even 
talked to the Empress of the French, and all in 
twelve weeks. Just think of it, Harriet! 

“Everybody says there is going to be a very 
glorious time in Paris, because the French are 
going to Berlin to fight the Germans, and a fort- 
night ago people lit up their houses every night 
and walked about the streets shouting ‘A Berlin 1’ 
all the time. They don’t make such a noise now, 
but while I am writing a poor woman with a 
child has come into the street, and a big crowd 
has gathered to hear the child sing, 

“Aliens enfants de la patrie 
Le jeur de gloire est arriv^e.” 

“The tune is called ^The Marseillaise,’ and 
Miss Dawkins used to play it for us to march 
round the schoolroom on wet days. Ever so 
many people are giving the child, who sang, 
money now. Two weeks ago I saw a funny thing. 
Some soldiers called ‘Zouaves’ went to the war, 
and took a parrot with them : and all the way to 
the station the parrot cried ‘A Berlin!’ 

“I have a little white dog, called Corps de 
Garde, who stands by me on the balcony on his 
hind legs, and I try to make him bark twice when 
I say ‘A Berlin !’ He is a dear little dog, but not 
quite as clever as the parrot. 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 


245 


‘‘He belongs really and truly to father’s land- 
lady, Madame Verlet. (I say Madame now be- 
cause father says we must consider people’s feel- 
ings, and French people would feel hurt if we 
just called them by their plain names.) He does 
not like people to stare at me in Paris, either, so 
I have a new dress and hat like everybody else’s. 
Thee may tell the girls, but beg them not to talk 
about it, for I shouldn’t like Friend Bartlett to 
hear about it, as his feelings would be hurt if he 
thought I did not look like a Friend any longer. 

“Madame Verlet has a daughter, called Mi- 
gnonette, whom I love dearly, but not quite as 
much as Cousin Benjamin. She nursed me when I 
was ill, and she has a splendid cousin who is dressed 
like a king, but he is only a soldier. He takes 
care of the Emperor, and we all thought that he 
would stay at home to look after the Emperor’s 
wife, who is such a pretty lady, but he has gone 
to the war after all, and now Mignonette’s eyes 
are red the first thing every morning, though she 
laughs and talks all day just as usual. Oh ! I do 
hope he will not be hurt fighting, for he is the 
splendidest man you ever saw, quite as big as 
father, and all dressed in blue and gold and silver. 

“I have not eaten a single frog since I came to 
France, and the French are not a bit like Felix 
Leblond. They do not bite their nails, and I 
think they are a very nice people. There is a 
lady in Paris who is very kind to me, because she 
knew father long ago. She is as beautiful as a 
fairy princess, but I mustn’t begin to write about 
her or I shall never stop, and father says my let- 
ter is too long already. She comes to see me 


246 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


every day and brings me grapes and peaches. 
Her husband is dead, but he had a boy, called 
Valentin, who is lame and very nice, and he comes 
to see me, too, sometimes. 

“Father asks to be very kindly remembered to 
thee and thy mother and father, and with very 
much love, I am always, dear Harriet, 

“Thy loving little friend (not the Quaker kind 
of friend, but thee will understand what I mean), 
“Silence Strangeways.’’ 

In the beginning of this letter you will notice 
that I told Harriet what a lot of glory the French 
people were expecting when they should have con- 
quered the Germans, and taken possession of Ber- 
lin. But the expected glory did not come, while 
instead of the French reaching Berlin a dreadful 
rumor began to spread to the effect that the Ger- 
mans were actually marching upon Paris, daily 
getting nearer and nearer. Very few could bring 
themselves to believe that there could be any 
truth in this report, but the Parisians began to be 
very anxious, and when they became anxious most 
of their cheerful good-temper deserted them, and 
they were sullen and angry. They walked about 
the streets as much as ever, and they waved red 
flags and sung the Marseillaise, but their faces 
were as black as thunder and instead of crying: 
“Long live the Emperor! Long live the Em- 
press 1” they began to sneer at them and say hor- 
rible things about them both. The miseries of 
war, which Cousin Benjamin had talked so much 
about, but which nobody else had seemed to think 
of, began to come home to us now, for the 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 


247 


wounded began to be brought back to Paris, and 
who should be among the first arrivals but Mi- 
gnonette s cousin, Jules Lebreton. You may im- 
agine our distress when we heard that he was 
wounded, whether much or little we could not tell, 
it was so difficult to get hold of reliable war tid- 
ings in Paris. 

It was on the afternoon of September third that 
the news was brought us, and, my father being 
out of doors, we all three, Madame Verlet, Mi- 
gnonette and I, sat down in the kitchen and mingled 
our tears, weeping bitterly, while Madame Ver- 
let told all about poor Jules’ good qualities in a 
voice broken by sobs, just as though he were 
already dead and she were making something up 
to put upon his tombstone. She used the word 
“was” all the time, too, in talking about him, 
which made Mignonette and me cry as if our 
hearts would break, and little Corps de Garde 
jumped upon each of our laps in turn, licking our 
faces and trying his very best to comfort us. 

The concierge came into the apartment while 
our misery was at its height, and informed us, 
in a hushed voice, that Mademoiselle’s carriage 
was at the door, and should he send it away again. 
I had been able to limp about the apartment for 
the last fortnight with the aid of a stick, but I 
drove out every fine afternoon so that I should 
get as much fresh air as possible without the 
trouble of walking. 

I rubbed my eyes, wiped my nose, and glanced 
from the sympathetic porter to our grief-stricken 
landlady. “Ecoutez, madame,” said I, “is it to 


248 LITTLE GREY GIRL 

the Tuileries that they have taken poor Monsieur 
Jules ?’^ 

“You are right, mademoiselle,” sobbed Ma- 
dame Verlet. “The salons of the palace have 
been prepared for the reception of the wounded. 
Thus much the Empress has done for the brave 
children of her adopted country, as indeed is no 
more than their due.” 

“Let us drive to the Tuileries, madame, and 
enquire for poor Monsieur Jules, thee and Mi- 
gnonette and me.” 

“The child is a marvel of resource!” cried 
Madame Verlet, her tears ceasing as though by 
magic. “Your good papa will surely not object, 
Mademoiselle Silence?” 

I was sure that my father would not object to 
anything calculated to bring consolation to un- 
happy people, so we all three made haste to get 
ready, the concierge carried me downstairs to the 
carriage, and we drove off to the Tuileries, Ma- 
dame Verlet quite happy by this time, and chatter- 
ing brightly all the way about the glory of 
suffering, if only slightly, for la belle France. It 
appeared that her mind had completely changed 
since we had left the apartment, and she had now 
come to the conclusion that Jules Lebreton was 
but slightly wounded. 

“What a thing it will be to hear le brave gargon 
describe the wonders of the fight,” she exclaimed. 
“I long to hear the whole story from his heroic 
lips.” 

We drew up at the great gate of the Tuileries 
at that moment, so I had no time to ask her if she 
did in very truth believe that the glories of war 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 


249 


would have the effect of unsealing the gallant but 
silent soldier’s lips. 

We had arranged, en route, that I should re- 
main quietly in the carriage with Corps de Garde, 
while Madame Verlet and Mignonette got out 
and pursued enquiries. But even as we drew up 
at the gates a band passed the palace, playing the 
Marseillaise, and our horse began to kick and 
plunge with fright, while little Corps de Garde 
barked fast and furiously. Mignonette flung her 
arms round me, while Madame Verlet shrieked 
and wrung her hands so that her tight kid gloves 
burst and split right across the palms. 

“Mon dieu!” she cried, “are we also come out 
but to perish?” 

The driver shouted at his horse and succeeded 
in calming it to a certain extent, but it continued 
to be very uneasy, and I clung nervously to Mi- 
gnonette’s hand. 

“Must you really both go and leave me alone 
with Corps de Garde?” 

“It is not to be thought of for a moment,” re- 
plied Madame Verlet. “One of us must stay with 
you, mademoiselle, and it must be Mignonette, 
because of les convenances.” 

Poor Mignonette’s face fell sadly, but she made 
no objection. I remembered her red eyes every 
morning since her cousin went away, and I thought 
hard of some means of solving the difficult 
problem. 

“Mignonette ought to go, too,” I observed 
presently, “because, thee sees, madame, she is 
so very, very fond of Monsieur Jules.” 

“Ah! taisez-vous mademoiselle,” exclaimed 


250 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


Mignonette under her breath, and her face be- 
came red as a cherry as she spoke. 

“But why should I be quiet when I do but 
speak the truth?” I protested. “I am sure thee 
loves thy cousin dearly.” 

“My little daughter ! My pretty Mignonette,” 
exclaimed madame with a sob. 

“Should I be in the way if I came with thee?” 
I suggested. “I could lean on Mignonette’s arm, 
and get on beautifully that way.” 

“Mademoiselle has the truly wonderful brain. 
She thinks of everything,” cried our landlady, joy- 
fully. “As for being in the way, how can made- 
moiselle think of such a thing while it is her 
carriage which has brought us in all this comfort 
to the Tuileries.” 

We got out of the carriage and Madame Verlet 
eyed the horse resentfully. “The accursed 
beast!” said she under her breath. “He has cost 
me a pair of gloves, new but last week, and of a 
remarkable cheapness.” 

We were received with great civility, due per- 
haps to the fact that we had arrived in a carriage, 
and the answer to our enquiries, which was 
brought without much delay, was most satisfac- 
tory. We were at liberty if we pleased to see 
Jules Lebreton then and there, and we were to 
make our minds easy; for though the gallant sol- 
dier was suffering from a severe gunshot wound in 
the arm it was not considered by any means 
dangerous. 

“What did I say? What have I said all 
along?” exclaimed Madame Verlet. “A few 
short days will see the brave gargon as well as 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 


251 


ever and doubtless wearing a medal upon his 
heroic breast.” 

It was a happy thing that the report was good, 
because otherwise I am sure our misery would 
have been increased tenfold as soon as we got 
inside the palace, everything was so very gloomy. 
We were conducted along passages and corridors, 
so dark that they had to be artificially lighted al- 
though it was but the afternoon of a bright 
September day; and as I limped along, leaning 
heavily on Mignonette’s arm, my disappointment 
grew more acute with every step I took. 

“This is a miserable place,” I whispered to 
my companions. “I thought palaces were all 
bright and light and beautiful, but this one is 
exactly like a prison.” 

“I myself greatly prefer our own little apart- 
ment,” replied Madame Verlet. “But then that 
is modern and this palace was built hundreds, nay, 
I daresay thousands, of years ago, when people 
had small idea of comfort.” 

“Thousands of years ago! Thee don’t mean 
it!” I exclaimed, greatly impressed by the idea 
of such hoary antiquity. “Why, it must be as 
old as those wonderful things father was tell- 
ing me about last week, the Pyramids of 
Egypt.” 

“Doubtless you are right, mademoiselle,” re- 
plied Madame Verlet, who knew as much of the 
pyramids as she knew about the Tuileries, which 
was really nothing at all. As for Mignonette, she 
said never a word, but she kept smiling, even 
while she was wiping the tears from her cheeks, 
and her breath kept coming in little gasps, just 


252 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


as if she had run all the way to the palace from 
the Rue Chaussee St. Antoine. 

And when we reached a little anteroom there 
sat Monsieur Jules in an arm-chair, shorn of all 
the glories of his uniform, and his arm in a sling, 
and directly he caught sight of us he jumped up 
and exclaimed, “Little Mignonette!” while she 
burst out crying and said, “Jules, my poor Jules I” 
And Madame Verlet cried louder than Mignon- 
ette, saying: “My poor children! My dear chil- 
dren !” and fell to kissing them each in turn until 
they remembered me. Then madame cried out 
that it was thanks to this sweet innocent that they 
were all enjoying this blissful hour, and she kissed 
me, and Mignonette kissed me, and Monsieur 
Jules bowed, turned very red, and pointed to his 
arm in proof that he could not salute as he would 
have wished, whereupon Mignonette cried again; 
and Madame Verlet waved her hand and said that 
such a wound was to his own glory and to the 
glory of la belle France. 

So then we all four sat down, for Madame 
said we must hear the whole story how their 
cousin had come by his wound: and such a story 
would doubtless have been most interesting had 
Madame and Mignonette not contented them- 
selves by asking questions very fast, without wait- 
ing for the answers, while Monsieur Jules sat in 
his arm-chair in perfect silence but smiling and 
gazing all the while at Mignonette. 

I soon began to tire of the incessant chatter, 
which told nothing about the war, and though I 
sat quite still I began to look around me. There 
were two doors in the anteroom, the one by which 


LIFE FROM A BALCONY 


253 


we had come in, while through the other, which 
stood ajar, I caught a glimpse of a large, gilded 
salon. Pictures hung on the walls and the ceiling 
was beautifully painted, but there was no hand- 
some furniture, only just a few plain chairs and 
a number of beds, and these beds were all filled 
with wounded soldiers. Most of the men lay 
quietly and patiently, but one or two of them were 
moaning terribly, so that it made the heart ache 
to listen to them. It was a piteous sight, and I 
wished the French people could have seen it 
before they tried to hurt dear Cousin Benjamin 
for saying what a terrible and miserable thing 
was war. 

The tears filled my own eyes, but they did not 
prevent my seeing a lady come into the salon, and 
I wiped away the tears hastily and bending 
forward stared with all my might, for in 
that lady I recognized the Empress. She 
looked years older than six weeks ago, 
and her eyes were sunken and weary, as 
though she had not slept for a long, long 
while; but she was still very beautiful, and 
for the first time I saw the likeness to my beauti- 
ful lady of which Valentin de Castelle had 
spoken. 

She moved from bed to bed, speaking to some 
and smoothing the coverlets of others, but sud- 
denly the man whom I had heard moaning before 
cried out in agony. The Empress hurried to him, 
spoke to a nurse, gave him some medicine, but 
still he cried out, and I saw her turn deadly pale, 
just as if she were going to faint — then she moved 
away rapidly, and before I had time to say a 


254 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


word she had left the salon and had come into 
our little anteroom, followed by a servant. 

“Mon Dieu! The Empress!” whispered Jules 
Lebreton, as he jumped up and tried unsuccess- 
fully to salute. I scrambled from my chair, Ma- 
dame Verlet and Mignonette dropped deep cour- 
tesies, but it seemed as though the Empress saw 
none of us. 

She passed through the room with haggard face 
and burning eyes, and as the servant closed the 
door after her Madame Verlet caught her breath 
and exclaimed with a sob: “Mon dieu! Mon 
dieu! she looks as if her heart was broken.” 

Poor, poor Empress ! Like most of her people 
she had embarked so light-heartedly upon “Her 
little war” as she called it, confident of victory, 
and utterly thoughtless of the awful miseries 
which even a successful war entails. And now 
these miseries were brought home to her, also de- 
feat abroad and disloyalty at home. Her sun 
had ceased to shine, and the clouds were gathered 
thick and dark around the throne, all ready to 
burst into storm and tempest. 

Even as we left the Tuileries that afternoon 
the Emperor’s dreadful despatch was on its way 
to the Palace to tell the Empress and the whole 
French nation that: “The army is defeated and 
taken. I am a prisoner. Napoleon.” 

And far into the night dense crowds surged up 
and down the streets, while the air was rent with 
the voices of men and women shouting: “Down 
with the Emperor! Down with the Empress 1 
Long live the Republic.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


REVOLUTION 

The next day was Sunday. I had not been able 
to go to any place of worship since my accident, 
so my father heard me read the Bible for an hour, 
and we said our prayers together, and then he 
told me that I must get ready to go away on 
Tuesday. 

“This defeat of Sedan is a very serious busi- 
ness for France, Silence,” he explained. “The 
Germans will be upon Paris almost immediately 
and then the siege will begin in earnest, and God 
help us all when that happens.” 

“I must say good-bye to my beautiful lady and 
Monsieur Valentin, I suppose, father,” I an- 
swered sadly. “She said she would send the car- 
riage for me at ten o’clock to take me to spend 
the day with her.” 

My father hesitated. “The streets seem quiet 
at present, and I think it will be safe for thee to 
go. It is possible, though, that Madame de Cas- 
telle will not want thee now that there is bad 
news about the defeat at Sedan.” 

The carriage came to fetch me, however, as he 
was speaking, and Mignonette made haste to 
dress me and to tie a ribbon round the neck of 
Corps de Garde, who had been included in the 
invitation to the Hotel de Castelle; and away we 


256 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


drove at a foot pace because the crowds were 
dense, though we had become so used to crowds 
during the early days of the war that we did not 
take as much notice of them as we should other- 
wise have done. I was surprised to see that these 
people did not appear to be troubling at all about 
the Emperor’s defeat, for, whereas upon the pre- 
vious evening they had been angry and sullen, 
this morning they were laughing and talking, 
shaking each other’s hands and cheering groups of 
workmen who were destroying the Imperial 
eagles. 

“Ecoutez done, mademoiselle, how these people 
are cheering,” exclaimed Michel the footman, 
turning toward me as he spoke. “They are 
pleased because there is no longer any Monarchy, 
and Paris has the old days of the Republic back 
again.” 

“What will become of the Empress, Michel?” 
I enquired. 

“That I cannot tell, mademoiselle,” said he, 
“but the people are thick as flies round the Palace. 
And the soldiers are looking out of the windows 
and crying: “Long live the Republic!” 

If the crowds in the streets were jubilant there 
was no merry-making in the Hotel de Castelle. 
My beautiful lady was pale and silent; her son 
was furiously angry at the thought that the 
French people should have turned against their 
Emperor and Empress at the very moment when 
they most needed consolation. 

“It is scandalous I Shameful!” cried he. “Only 
three weeks ago all these people were crying, 
‘Long live the Emperor!’ And now they are 


REVOLUTION 


257 


walking about waving red flags and cheering the 
Republic.” 

“We must hope that their anger will spend it- 
self in words,” suggested Madame de Castelle. 
“These people would hardly be cruel enough to 
attack the Empress in this her hour of grief and 
anxiety.” 

“All through dejeuner we talked about Sedan, 
and we wondered when we should hear news of 
Monsieur de Briennais, and whether he had been 
taken prisoner along with the Emperor or no. 
And all the while we could hear through the open 
windows the laughter and talk of the people pass- 
ing along the avenue, and the frequent cries of: 
“Down with the Empire 1 An Emperor dies, but 
he does not surrender !” 

After dejeuner Madame de Castelle went away 
to lie down, leaving Valentin and me to keep each 
other company. We talked quietly for a long, 
long while, both of us feeling depressed and 
wretched, and I am afraid Corps de Garde found 
us very unsatisfactory companions, because dur- 
ing the middle of the afternoon he suddenly dis- 
appeared, and when we looked around the room 
for him he was nowhere to be found. 

Valentin rushed into the hall, calling his name 
at the top of his voice. A sudden inspiration 
caused me to hurry on to the balcony, and from 
this vantage ground I espied Corps de Garde’s 
small, white figure disappearing up the avenue. 

“Valentin I Valentin ! he’s got out of the house. 
He’s in the street. Come quickly, we must run 
after him.” 

Thus I cried, never thinking how much wiser it 


258 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


would be, considering the state of the streets and 
my ankle, to send a footman to follow the run- 
away. 

Valentin never hesitated for a moment. He 
seized his stick, followed me obediently, and we 
hurried along the avenue until a sharp, stabbing 
pain in my foot made me stop short with a stifled 
cry: “My ankle! It has begun to hurt me 
again.’’ 

Valentin looked at me in dismay. “Oh! Si- 
lence, I forgot your foot. You shouldn’t have 
tried to run all this way.” 

“But we must find Corps de Garde, we must, we 
must,” cried I. “Oh! monsieur,” I continued, 
stopping one of the passers-by, “will thee have the 
goodness to tell me if thee has seen a little white 
dog walking along the Avenue?” 

“A rough-haired little terrier?” replied the 
man good-humoredly. “I met him but a moment 
ago at the top of the Avenue.” 

“Oh! Valentin, please, please run after him. 
I’ll wait here for thee.” 

“I can’t leave you here standing alone in the 
street,” replied Valentin, decidedly. “But I’ll tell 
you. Silence, what I will do. I’ll ask if you may 
wait for me in this house and I’ll go and find 
Corps de Garde.” 

“I can’t go into a strange house,” I objected. 

“It isn’t strange,” replied my companion im- 
patiently. “It is Dr. Evans’ house, and I’ve been 
in it scores of times. Dr. Evans is our dentist, 
and a very nice man.” 

He dragged me up the steps, rang the bell, and 
asked the servant if I might wait until his return, 


REVOLUTION 


259 


and my foot hurt so much that I had no energy 
for further objections. The footman evidently 
recognized the young Comte de Castelle, and he 
replied respectfully that “mademoiselle was wel- 
come to wait as long as she chose” ; whereupon I 
hobbled after the man into an anteroom, and he 
pushed a chair forward for my accommodation, 
and pointed toward a heap of books and papers 
covering a center-table. He then left the room, 
shutting the door behind him. 

I neither took the chair nor did I so much as 
glance at any of the papers. Instead, I limped to 
the window, hid myself behind a curtain, and with 
my nose glued to the pane began to keep an anx- 
ious watch for Valentin and Corps de Garde. 

I don’t know how long I had been staring into 
the Avenue, when suddenly the door opened and 
I heard the footman say: “Be seated, mesdames. 
Monsieur is engaged at present, but I will let him 
know you are here without delay.” 

He asked what names he should take to the 
doctor, but one of the ladies, speaking in a low, 
nervous voice, said that.there was no need to men- 
tion any names, only they wished to see Dr. Evans 
as soon as possible. 

Something in the voice sounded familiar to me 
and I turned and peeped from behind my curtain : 
then, forgetting about Valentin and Corpe de 
Garde, I stared with all my eyes and in the utmost 
amazement, because in one of the ladies I recog- 
nized the Empress Eugenie, in the other the lady 
who had been with her in old Pierre’s garret upon 
that memorable morning nearly a couple of 
months ago — that identical morning when the old 


26 o little grey girl 

man had told the horrid tale of the toppling 
crowns. 

My heart melted in sympathy at the sight of 
her. “Poor, poor Empress,” thought I, “her hus- 
band is taken prisoner, and now she has had to 
come to the dentist with toothache. I do hope 
he will not have to pull the tooth out and hurt her 
dreadfully.” And I wondered whether royal 
dentists hurt kings and queens and empresses as 
much as our Bursfield dentist had hurt me upon 
several occasions. 

The two ladies sat very quietly, and never so 
much as noticed me peeping from behind the win- 
dow curtains. Had they begun to talk I should 
have thought it necessary to show myself, but they 
sat in perfect silence until the footman returned 
with a message that his master was at liberty. 

“Will you be good enough, madame, to explain 
to Dr. Evans?” observed the Empress, and the 
lady curtseyed and followed the footman from 
the room. 

Then, and not till then, did the empress bury 
her face in her hands and groan aloud. And as 
she groaned I heard her mutter: “Unhappy pal- 
ace ! Unhappy palace ! It is then fated that all 
crowned heads shall leave you in this manner.” 

Her words were incomprehensible to me, but 
her attitude appeared perfectly natural in any- 
one waiting the summons to the dentist’s operating 
room. How terribly sorry I felt for her. My 
own ankle was paining me considerably, but I 
knew that such a pain was as nothing compared 
to the agony of having a tooth extracted. I verily 
believe that in another moment I should have 


REVOLUTION 


261 


limped forward with some attempt at consolation, 
but the door opened and a man hurried into the 
room and: “Madame,” said he, “Your Majesty! 
Oh! Madame.” 

The Empress was quite composed again by this 
time. “Madame Lebreton has told you the 
worst?” she enquired calmly. 

“I cannot think that matters are quite so seri- 
ous as madame implies, your Majesty,” the dentist 
replied, respectfully. 

“Madame Lebreton does not exaggerate. The 
worst possible has happened,” answered the 
Empress. 

Dr. Evans asked her to do him the honor to 
accompany him into another room, and he 
led her away and left me wondering in the ante- 
room. 

Valentin de Castelle returned in triumph a few 
minutes later, driving in a fiacre and accompanied 
by the runaway. Corps de Garde. “I thought you 
had better drive back home,” he explained, “be- 
cause of your sprained ankle. How does it feel 
now. Silence?” 

“It hurts a good deal,” I acknowledged, “but 
it will be all right again as soon as I have rested 
it. And oh ! Valentin, what dost thee think? The 
Empress is in the dentist’s house.” 

“The Empress in Dr. Evans’ house!” echoed 
Valentin. “Why, Silence, you must be dreaming.” 

“I’m not dreaming,” I retorted. “She came 
into the room where I was a few minutes ago with 
another lady, called Madame Lebreton.” 

“Madame Lebreton ! That is the name of the 
Empress’s lady-in-waiting. Maman knows her 


262 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


quite well,” exclaimed my companion. “But 
indeed, Silence, Empresses don’t go to visit 
dentists.” 

“Not even when they have the toothache?” I 
enquired in surprise. 

“Why then, of course, the dentists go to see 
them at their palaces,” retorted Valentin a little 
impatiently. 

“Perhaps the Empress’s tooth hurt too much 
for her to wait till the doctor came,” I suggested. 
“I am sure it must have been very bad because 
she said the worst had happened.” 

My companion was too polite to contradict me 
again, and he helped me out of the fiacre in a 
silence which I found very trying, for it spoke 
louder than words that he was perfectly certain 
that somehow or other I had made a great 
mistake. 

Michel, the footman, met us in the hall, and he 
appeared extremely relieved to see us. “Oh I 
monsieur, we have been looking everywhere for 
you and mademoiselle,” said he. “And Madame 
le Comtesse has been asking for you. He is 
here,” he continued in a lower voice, glancing to- 
ward the salon as he spoke. 

**He! Do you mean that fellow, Leblond?” 
enquired Valentin, scowling. 

“He arrived five minutes ago in great excite- 
ment and asked to see Madame le Comtesse with- 
out delay,” explained the footman. 

“I shall go straight upstairs to my own room,” 
announced my companion, decidedly. “Come 
along. Silence. But no,” he exclaimed, changing 
his mind suddenly, “I can’t leave petite maman 


REVOLUTION 263 

alone with him. Oh ! how I wish the fellow would 
keep away from the house.” 

He led the way to the salon m sullen silence, 
and I followed, thinking less of Felix Leblond 
than of my lame foot, which was beginning to 
ache and throb quite as badly as when I lay sick 
in bed six weeks ago. 

“Oh! Valentin, where have you been?” ex- 
claimed my beautiful lady as we came into the 
room. “Monsieur Leblond has just brought such 
terrible news. The mob have stormed the 
Tuileries.” 

“And the Empress?” enquired Valentin breath- 
lessly. 

“The Empress has fled, no one knows where,” 
replied Felix Leblond. “She could not have re- 
mained in the Palace with any safety. The mob 
are destroying the furniture, cutting the canvasses 
out of the pictures and throwing the statues into 
the river. It is horrible to see such wanton de- 
struction.” 

“It is horrible to think of the poor Empress in 
such a terrible plight,” exclaimed Madame de 
Castelle. “How I pray that the good God may 
lead her to some place of refuge and safety.” 

I glanced at Valentin, and should have spoken 
at once, but he gave a sharp look toward Felix 
Leblond and laid his finger upon his lips. 

“It is of ourselves we must think at present,” 
observed the latter. “The Empress can doubtless 
take very good care of herself. You must leave 
Paris without delay, madame, for within a week 
it will be besieged in good earnest.” 

“I shall not leave Paris until I have news of 


264 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


my brother, Monsieur de Briennais,” replied Ma- 
dame de Castelle, firmly. 

“Good heavens ! What nonsense is this ?” cried 
Felix Leblond angrily. “The trains are crowded 
with people hurrying out of the city. You and 
your son must pack up and be off by to-morrow at 
latest. You will have a very capable escort in 
myself, I assure you, madame.” 

“But Madame la Comtesse is fortunate enough 
to be able to dispense with your valuable services, 
monsieur,” announced Valentin with dangerous 
politeness. “You surely heard her say just now 
that she does not intend to leave Paris at 
present.” 

“Will you be silent?” shouted Felix Leblond, 
losing his temper in earnest. “IVe put up with 
your insolence long enough, you young cub. I’ll 
make you smart for your impudence, just you see 
if I don’t. I’ve cards up my sleeve that you 
know nothing about ; but when you do, and you’ll 
know soon enough, let me tell you, you’ll be sorry 
you haven’t sung a little smaller.” 

He finished this speech with a dreadful, wicked 
word, and Valentin, who seemed to have grown 
up suddenly, limped across the room and rang 
the bell, which Michel answered so quickly that 
one might almost have imagined that he had been 
waiting outside the door. 

“Show Monsieur Leblond out,” commanded 
Valentin. 

“You be off,” the Frenchman commanded the 
astonished Michel. “I shall leave this house when 
and how I please.” 

It was strange to see how Felix Leblond’s fine 


REVOLUTION 


265 


manners slipped away from him directly he be- 
came angry, leaving the real man, vulgar, over- 
bearing and insolent. 

“The door, Michel,” repeated Valentin. 

“Do you want the footman to hear what Tve 
got to say, or don’t you?” shouted the older man. 

Madame de Castelle came forward. She was 
white as a sheet, but calm, and she held her head 
like a queen. 

“Michel, leave the room,” she commanded — 
and then turned to her stepson. 

“Valentin, my dear boy, be silent for five min- 
utes. And you, monsieur, I should be glad to 
hear what you have to say as quickly as possible; 
and then perhaps you will have the goodness to 
leave this house.” 

“And then perhaps you will be anxious that I 
should remain,” sneered Felix Leblond. 

He seemed rather pleased with this last retort, 
for when he spoke again it was quietly and pleas- 
antly. “This brother of yours, madame, on whom 
you apparently set such store, he isn’t worth your 
affection, he isn’t really.” 

Valentin made a movement forward, but his 
mother laid her hand upon his arm, and he stood 
still again. 

“Monsieur,” said she to Felix Leblond, “I 
would remind you that my brother is away fight- 
ing for his country and emperor.” 

“Which, of course, transforms a gambler and 
roue into a wonderful hero,” sneered the French- 
man. “Mon dieu ! madame, I see you would be 
glad enough to give me the lie, but you’ll soon 
have proof positive that I speak the truth.” 


266 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


‘‘You have waited, however, to tell me this 
news until Monsieur de Briennais is hundreds of 
miles away from Paris, and unable to speak for 
himself,” replied Madame de Castelle, coldly. 

“If Antoine de Briennais chooses to waste his 
substance in mad speculation that’s no business of 
mine,” retorted Felix Leblond, shrugging his 
shoulders. “I should not have spoken now had 
that young cub not driven me by his insolence into 
saying what I can prove to be true within an hour. 
I am a good-hearted man, Madame de Castelle, 
and am anxious that you should be reasonable and 
so avoid hearing the worst there is to tell.” 

“I would rather hear the worst at once,” re- 
plied Madame de Castelle, white to the lips. 

“Oh! no you wouldn’t,” replied the Frenchman, 
smiling. “You don’t know, madame, how very 
unpleasant the worst can sometimes be. Anyhow, 
I am going to give you another chance. You 
must both of you, the count and yourself, leave 
Paris with me to-morrow morning for Nice or 
some other place of refuge.” 

“I have already told you that we intend, my 
son and I, to wait in Paris for news of Monsieur 
de Briennais,” replied Madame de Castelle. 
“And I wish to hear at once the worst about 
which you speak so much.” 

“It is six o’clock at present,” observed Felix 
Leblond, consulting his watch. “I shall give you 
until ten o’clock to-morrow morning to make up 
your mind — exactly sixteen hours. For the pres- 
ent I will wish you au revoir. Nay, my boy,” to 
Valentin who laid his hand upon the bell, “there 
is no need to summon the footman. I can find 


REVOLUTION 


267 


my way out of the house as quickly as, one fine 
day, I may find my way within it, and in a capacity 
of which at present you do not dream.” 

He bowed low to Madame de Castelle and 
Valentin, and utterly ignoring me made for the 
door. But as he passed my chair a strange thing 
happened, for Corps de Garde, who had been 
crouching under my skirts, lifted up his head and 
howled; and this howl was entirely unlike the 
sharp, savage growl with which he had last shown 
his dislike of the Frenchman, Leblond. It was 
rather the long, melancholy, penetrating howl by 
which a dog tries to tell the surrounding world 
that he has scented out the presence of death and 
tragedy. 


CHAPTER XXVII 


TROUBLES NEVER COME SINGLY 

There was a dead silence for some moments 
after Felix Leblond had left the room, and then 
Madame de Castelle turned to Valentin, “Will 
you be good enough to ring the bell !” said she. 

Her son obeyed, and Michel appeared with the 
same amazing promptitude as before. 

“I am not at home to Monsieur Leblond in 
future,” said Madame de Castelle. 

“Bien, madame,” said Michel, and, bowing, 
left the room — whereupon ensued another long 
pause which I thought would never come to an 
end. 

“Can I not get you anything, maman?” sug- 
gested Valentin at last. “I think you ought to 
have some wine or brandy. That scoundrel has 
made you ill.” 

“Oh no, Valentin, my dear boy,” replied Ma- 
dame de Castelle, gently. “Don’t trouble about 
me. Indeed I am perfectly well.” 

“You intend to remain in Paris, petite ma- 
man?” her son enquired a little timidly. 

“You heard me say so just now, Valentin. I 
shall not change my plans.” 

“Felix Leblond will call to-morrow at ten 
o’clock, and you will not receive him,” observed 


TROUBLES NEVER COME SINGLY 269 


her son. “He will go away and write a letter, 
and then we shall know the worst.” 

His mother made no answer. 

“I wonder what the worst can be,” the boy 
continued thoughtfully. “And oh ! maman — 
about my uncle — the things he said can’t possibly 
be true, they can’t indeed.” 

My beautiful lady’s lips trembled, and her eyes 
filled with tears. It was just as if she had 
changed from a cold statue into a woman again. 

“Oh ! Valentin,” said she, “we don’t know what 
temptations your poor uncle may have had. He 
has always been kind and tender to both of us 
and — and we mustn’t judge him harshly or speak 
ill of him when he is so far away, and can’t speak 
for himself or give us any explanation.” 

“Then you believe that that fellow tells the 
truth,” replied Valentin, gloomily. 

Madame de Castelle hid her face in her hands 
and burst into tears, and the sight of her weeping 
reduced me to the depths of despair, and I, too, 
began to sob bitterly. Poor Valentin looked from 
one to the other of us in the utmost perplexity, 
and then, without saying a word, limped out of 
the room, but returned presently, carrying two 
glasses in one hand, a jug of water in the other, 
and a bottle of wine under his arm. 

“I could not find a tray,” he explained, “and I 
didn’t want to call the servants. Ecoutez, petite 
maman, you are to take a glass of this wine imme- 
diately, and then you are to cease troubling and 
try to smile again. After all we have got rid of 
that fellow for good, which is something to be 
thankful for.” 


270 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


My beautiful lady sipped a little wine, but she 
still continued to look very unhappy. “I am 
afraid Antoine may have spent his own money 
and have been obliged to borrow from — from 
that man,” she suggested, ‘‘he has seemed so ut- 
terly in his power of late.” 

“I expect you are right; but what of that, 
maman?” replied her son. “I have plenty of 
money, and my uncle is welcome to it so long as 
we are rid of this mauvals sujet.” 

“You are a dear, generous boy, Valentin,” ex- 
claimed my beautiful lady, kissing him. “But of 
course your uncle would never consent to take 
your money.” 

“We’ll see about that,” replied Valentin, pour- 
ing out some more wine as he spoke and carrying 
it to me. “Now, Silence, drink this wine and 
stop crying. Everything will be all right pres- 
ently, you see if it isn’t.” 

“Everything will not be all right,” I retorted 
through my tears. “Everything goes wrong to- 
day, and my foot hurts terribly.” 

For the moment all trouble connected with the 
de Castelle household was forgotten, and interest 
centered round my unfortunate ankle. Michel, 
the footman, carried me to a sofa, my beautiful 
lady drew off my shoe and stocking with her own 
hands, and all exclaimed in consternation at the 
sight of my foot swollen to twice its usual size. 

“Oh! Silence,” cried Valentin, “you shouldn’t 
have run so far. You must have strained your 
foot dreadfully.” 

“I — I didn’t run very far,” I protested. “And 
I rested in the dentist’s house; and it was the 


TROUBLES NEVER COME SINGLY 271 


Empress I saw there and thee should believe me, 
Valentin, when I speak the truth.” 

And so saying I began to wail dismally, because, 
in my heart of hearts, I knew that Valentin was 
right, that I should not have attempted to walk 
so far, and I guessed that my father would blame 
me and reproach me for falling into the wars 
again just at the time when he intended to take 
me away from Paris. 

“Never mind about the Empress just at pres- 
ent,” exclaimed Madame de Castelle, who evi- 
dently did not in the least understand what I was 
talking about. “We must send for the doctor to 
see this poor foot, and we must let your papa 
know that you are staying with us to-night. We 
can’t let you go home until you are better.” 

The doctor’s arrival did nothing to check my 
tears, for he shook his head gravely, and said he 
was afraid I had been a very careless child; and 
my father, who came in while he was looking at 
my foot, scolded me and told me that I had suc- 
ceeded in giving everybody a great deal of un- 
necessary trouble. 

“There is sorrow enough in Paris to-day, made- 
moiselle,” observed the doctor, gravely, “and 
now you have got into trouble on your own 
account.” 

“The poor Empress!” exclaimed my beautiful 
lady, who I think was sorry for me and wished to 
change the conversation, “I do hope, monsieur, 
that she has found a refuge with some good 
friend.” 

“She is at the dentist’s,” I announced, “at Doc- 
tor Evans’ house. I saw her there myself.” 


272 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


The doctor laid his hand on my forehead. “A 
trifle light-headed,” said he. ‘‘A highly sensitive 
and nervous organization. She must be kept 
quiet, and I will look in to-morrow morning.” 

“And I will send a carriage to fetch her home 
to-morrow afternoon,” said my father, decidedly. 
“There seems to be no end to the trouble my 
family has been fated to give you, madame, dur- 
ing the past few weeks.” 

“If that were the only trouble, how easily I 
should be able to bear it,” my beautiful lady re- 
plied in a low tone. 

It was a depressing evening, and I discovered 
that pain is much harder to bear when the sufferer 
is mainly responsible for its cause. Outside, the 
streets of Paris were all illuminated in honor of 
the downfall of the Empire, but I knew nothing 
about that till later, for I was put to bed in a 
quiet room, and even Valentin was not allowed to 
see me until the next day, after the doctor had 
been to visit me and had reported that I might be 
moved to the Rue Chaussee St. Antoine, provided 
that I did not put my foot to the ground. 

“It has all happened exactly as I said it would,” 
exclaimed Valentin next morning after he had hur- 
riedly enquired as to the state of my ankle. “Le- 
blond came at ten o’clock, and Michel told him 
that Madame la Comtesse was not at home. 
Michel was ever so pleased; he can’t bear Felix 
Leblond.” 

“And now thee will know the worst,” I replied, 
apprehensively. “Oh I Valentin, I wonder what 
it can be? I do hope it is nothing very bad.” 

My friend, however, appeared quite cheerful. 


TROUBLES NEVER COME SINGLY 273 


He was so glad to have got rid, as he thought, of 
the crafty Frenchman, that he was comparatively 
ready to see everything couleur de rose, but I 
could settle to nothing all day; and if I looked 
through the window once I looked a thousand 
times, in constant expectation of seeing Felix Le- 
blond carrying the fateful letter which should 
make known “the worst” to my beautiful lady. 

Toward three o’clock there was a knock at the 
door, followed almost immediately by a second, 
and Valentin and I glanced at one another. 

“Go and see what it is,” I exclaimed, impul- 
sively. “I do feel so anxious. I don’t know what 
makes me feel so anxious, but I have been fright- 
ened all to-day.” 

My companion limped out of the room, and the 
minutes passed, and half an hour, then three- 
quarters, and still he did not return. I did not 
dare to move from my sofa, and I lay there, won- 
dering and worrying as to what could possibly 
have happened, until Michel, the footman, came 
into the room. 

“Oh ! Michel,” cried I, “is anything the matter? 
I have been lying alone for such a long time.” 

“There is bad news, mademoiselle,” replied 
Michel, solemnly. “Very bad news indeed. Mon- 
sieur de Briennais is dead — killed at the battle 
of Sedan.” 

I lay still, awe-stricken and frightened for a 
moment, and then a thought struck me, and I 
looked up at the footman. “Did Felix Leblond 
bring the news?” 

“No, mademoiselle,” he replied, promptly. 
“Monsieur Leblond left a letter for my mistress 


274 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


this afternoon, but the news of Monsieur de 
Briennais’ death came by telegram.” 

Felix Leblond’s worst could surely not be so 
terrible as these evil tidings, thought I, and I felt 
very sorry for my beautiful lady who, I knew, 
had loved her brother tenderly. I did not see her 
or Valentin again that day, and I felt relieved 
when my father arrived and took me back to our 
apartment — though the cheering, laughing street- 
crowds seemed strangely at variance with the 
grief-stricken household I had just quitted. 

As we drove up to our house, who should be 
standing in the doorway talking to Mignonette, 
and in the care of a small boy, but old blind 
Pierre; and as Mignonette ran forward, exclaim- 
ing joyfully at sight of me, the old man rubbed 
his hands, chuckled with glee, and cried, triumph- 
antly: “What have I seen? What have I seen? 
Three crowns topple into the mud. Ma foi ! but 
this last has rolled a trifle sooner than was ex- 
pected. Long live the Republic ! Down with the 
Emperor!” 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT. 

By the time I was able to limp about again, 
Paris was cut off from the outer world, and the 
city was besieged in real earnest. The last train 
left Paris upon September 17th, and when I was 
well enough to walk to one of the principal rail- 
way stations, I thought that I had never in my 
life seen such a curious sight. For the empty 
trains were turned into little cottages, each com- 
partment a cottage, because the people living in 
them had been forced to desert their own homes 
on the outskirts of Paris, and come within the 
city for safety. Seventy-five thousand foreigners 
and French people had left Paris before the siege, 
but three times that number had flocked within 
the walls from the surrounding country, therefore 
every inch of space was valuable. The poor peo- 
ple, forced to live in the trains, looked like 
hordes of gypsies, as they did their washing and 
cooking upon the various platforms, while part of 
their furniture had been stowed away in the 
trucks, and part of it was piled up in front of the 
carriages. 

One could see cows, sheep and pigs littered in 
the public squares of Paris, but nearly the whole 
of the city had been transformed into one vast 


276 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


drill-ground, and the clang of arms resounded 
from morning till night. 

Our apartment looked like a regular provision 
store, for, at the first rumor of the siege, Madame 
Verlet had begun to lay in all manner of provi- 
sions, dried cod, tins of sardines, sacks of potatoes 
— and, above all, cheeses large and cheeses small, 
cheeses of all description, because she had been 
told that if the worst came to the worst people 
could live for weeks, nay months, upon a diet of 
cheese and water. As for wine, there was enough 
and to spare to last Paris for many months; and 
one could buy a bottle of wine at the usual price 
at a time when rats were fetching a franc apiece 
for food. 

I enjoyed myself immensely — at first. I had 
never been allowed to eat much cheese or tinned 
stuff, therefore both had the fascination of forbid- 
den fruit, and the thought that I should be allowed 
an unlimited supply of these dainties was delight- 
ful. Mignonette was always gay and smiling, and 
her gallant cousin’s wound not being sufficiently 
healed to allow of fighting, he visited the apart- 
ment every day with his arm in a sling, and I 
would describe to him, and to other of Madame 
Verlet’s friends, my visit to Dr. Evans’ house 
upon Revolution Sunday, and how I had seen 
the Empress come in to take refuge with the 
dentist. 

I was quite an important little girl in those 
early days of the siege, and I was very happy liv- 
ing among people I loved and who loved me 
dearly; also it was a splendid thing to be as it 
were in the midst of adventure without any great 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT 


277 


hardship to lessen the sense of excitement and 
interest. 

“I am like a little girl living in a story-book,” 
said I one day to Madame Verlet. “Twice I 
dreamed that I was shut up in a town, but I didn’t 
know it would be as nice as this. I love the things 
thee makes out of cheese, madame, and it is 
interesting to watch what thee can do with a piece 
of dried cod to make it taste good.” 

“It is very inconvenient all the same to be 
obliged to use horse-marrow instead of butter,” 
grumbled our landlady. “And, think of it, made- 
moiselle, when I went to the market this morning, 
they had the audacity to ask me forty francs for 
a rabbit and sixteen for a cabbage. Vraiment 
c’est affreux!” 

Mignonette and I bought seeds and we planted 
a little vegetable garden on the balcony, which 
we tended carefully in the confident expectation 
of the production of a nice supply of green stuff. 
Lots of other Parisians did the same, but, alas! 
the cold weather came early and literally nipped 
our hopes in the bud. 

For a month I saw nothing of my beautiful lady 
or Valentin. My father said that people in 
trouble seldom wished to be worried with visits 
or attentions, and that if I really loved Madame 
de Castelle I should be content to leave her to 
herself until she chose to send for me. So we 
each wrote a little letter of sympathy, and then I 
settled down to wait with as good grace as possi- 
ble for further tidings, though every day I won- 
dered and wondered aloud how my friends were 
getting on, what they were doing, also whether 


278 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


they had heard any more of Felix Leblond since 
the day he had threatened them so rudely in their 
own house. 

And then one day Mignonette came into my 
bedroom and told me that there was a visitor 
waiting to see me in the salon. “It is the Comte 
de Castelle, mademoiselle,” said she. “He is 
wearing a black suit, and he is pale, as though he 
had seen trouble, poor young gentleman ! Made- 
moiselle must try to cheer him,” continued Mignon- 
ette, sponging my hands and face and brushing 
my hair vigorously. “It is sad indeed that one 
so young should be called upon to suffer, but that 
is the penalty of war.” 

When I reached the salon, Valentin was seated, 
patting Corps de Garde, who stood by his side, 
his ragged head upon his knee, delighted to see his 
friend, but a little less boisterous than in the de- 
parted days of plenty. “Poor old man!” said 
Valentin, “you’ve grown thinner since the last 
time I saw you.” 

“Thee needn’t talk,” said I. “Thee’s thin 
enough thyself. Hast thee been ill, Valentin?” 

“I’m all right,” he replied, “but maman has 
been ill, and everything has been pretty miserable 
lately.” 

“Why, what’s been the matter with thy 
mother?” I enquired. “Has she been in bed?” 

“Not exactly in bed,” answered Valentin, “but 
she doesn’t eat, and I don’t believe she sleeps. 
And she’s grown so pale and thin I can’t bear to 
see her.” 

“Perhaps she’s fretting about thy uncle. Mon- 
sieur de Briennais?” I suggested. 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT 


279 


“I suppose it’s that,” replied my friend. “But 
I wish she wouldn’t make herself ill over it, be- 
cause it was a splendid death — fighting for his 
country and emperor.” 

“Thee should tell her so,” I suggested. “Per- 
haps it would comfort her a little.” 

Valentin shrugged his shoulders. “It’s no good 
my talking,” said he. “Only yesterday I told her 
that instead of fretting so much she should be 
proud of uncle Antoine.” 

“And what did she say?” 

“She said : ‘I hope you will always try to think 
kindly of your poor uncle, Valentin.’ ” 

“ ‘Poor,’ indeed!” said I. “You can’t be think- 
ing of that wretched money yet, petite maman. 
Uncle Antoine had a right to do what he liked 
with his own: and even had he done wrong 
I should forget everything — everything — 
when I remembered how he died on the battle- 
field.” 

“What did she say to that?” I enquired. 

“She sighed and left the room,” replied Valen- 
tin. “She is always sighing now. I can’t think 
what has come to her. She was sad when papa 
died five years ago, but not like this.” 

“It must be dreadful for thee, Valentin,” I 
exclaimed, sympathetically. 

“I don’t mind about myself if only she could 
be different,” he answered, sadly. “And oh! Si- 
lence, that Leblond is actually coming to the house 
again. He was mixed up in Uncle Antoine’s busi- 
ness, and maman says she must see him to arrange 
matters.” 

“Oh dear!” said I, “what a pity! Why, she 


28 o 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


told Michel she would never have him in the 
house again.’’ 

“What’s a pity?” exclaimed my father, coming 
into the room at that moment. “Why, my dear 
boy I am pleased to see thee,” said he, catching 
sight of Valentin. “I hope thee’s well and thy 
mother also.” 

“Everything’s wrong, father,” I interposed dis- 
consolately. “My beautiful lady is ill, and Felix 
Leblond is going to see her again.” 

“I am sorry to hear Madame de Castelle is ill,” 
exclaimed my father, looking greatly concerned. 
“Is it serious? Is she in bed?” 

Valentin explained the state of affairs again, 
and my father said, like myself only in different 
words, that he supposed Monsieur de Briennais’ 
death had been a great shock to her. 

“And now Felix Leblond is going to the house 
again,” I repeated. “And Valentin does hate 
him so.” 

“Don’t let me hear thee talk like that. 
Silence,” said my father severely. “Hate is a 
terrible word for a little girl, or indeed anybody, 
to use.” 

“I know it is, father,” I agreed promptly, “and 
Madame de Castelle told us that when we hated 
anyone we should try to love them. But Valentin 
and I can’t love Felix Leblond, and it’s war to the 
knife between him and Valentin.” 

“You don’t like him either, do you, monsieur?” 
enquired Valentin quickly. 

“No,” replied my father quietly. “I cannot 
truthfully say that I like Felix Leblond.” 

“There ! thee sees for thyself it can’t be done,” 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT 


281 


cried I triumphantly. “The Bible was written be- 
fore Felix Leblond was born.” 

“But not before Judas Iscariot was born, or 
several others, of whom Jesus Christ said: 
‘Father, forgive them, for they know not what 
they do.’ ” 

A gloomy silence succeeded this, my father’s, 
statement. 

“I can’t help the Bible, I should like to shoot 
the fellow,” announced Valentin presently. 

“And thee. Silence?” 

“I don’t want Valentin to shoot him,” I replied 
after a moment’s hesitation. “But I would like 
God, or somebody else, to pay him out for being 
so horrid.” 

“I am glad thee has the grace to speak the 
truth,” replied my father calmly. “I have felt the 
same sometimes.” 

“Then it is all right,” cried I joyfully. 

“On the contrary, it is all wrong,” he answered. 
“Such feelings are murderous and must be got rid 
of as quickly as possible.” 

“Surely, monsieur, you wouldn’t have me try 
to be friends with a fellow like Leblond?” ex- 
claimed Valentin, a trifle sullenly. 

“I haven’t any right to dictate to thee. Mon- 
sieur Valentin,” replied my father smiling. 

“Well, but would you?” persisted the boy. 

“I shouldn’t like to see either thee or Silence 
choosing undesirable friends,” replied my father. 
“But if either of you are forced to be in contact 
with such people, you might at least try to be 
civil.” 


282 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


‘‘But the feelings would still be there,” pro- 
tested Valentin. 

“My boy,” said my father solemnly, laying his 
hand on Valentin’s shoulder, “there is only One 
can help thee to get rid of such feelings; don’t 
thee keep Him waiting too long before thee asks 
His help.” 

“I’ll ask Him, too, since thee wishes it, father,” 
said I, “but it will be hard work for God to make 
me and Valentin feel differently. We thought we 
were never going to hear of Felix Leblond again, 
and now he is going to the Hotel de Castelle just 
like before Monsieur de Briennais went away.” 

“Well, thy friend here can’t do anything to 
prevent that,” replied my father firmly. “He 
must just try to make the best of it.” 

“That is what the concierge said to-day when 
he had the cat for dinner,” I replied thought- 
fully. 

My father and Valentin both began to laugh, 
and, when they laughed, everything seemed to 
become brighter somehow ; we began to talk about 
all sorts of interesting things. Madame Verlet 
came in with some wonderful cake which she had 
concocted in honor of our visitor, and we had a 
very good time until Michel arrived to help his 
young master home again. 

“Shall thee try to make the best of it, Valen- 
tin?” I enquired as we said good-bye to each 
other. 

“I suppose I shall have to,” replied my com- 
panion. “Your father is what you call a good 
sort. Silence, and what he says sticks.” 

“Father is splendid,” I agreed, “for Felix Le- 


MAKING THE BEST OF IT 283 


blond gave him ever so much trouble, and yet I 
believe he would do him a good turn if he could.’’ 

“Ah well! I haven’t got as far as that, yet,” 
replied Valentin, shrugging his shoulders and mak- 
ing a wry face as he turned away to join Michel. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE WORST 

As time wore on we had to make the best, not 
only of Felix Leblond but of many things. The 
dark, cold days were upon us, and the siege, which 
for me had begun almost in jest, was now a mat- 
ter of grim reality. 

The nights were long, oh! so long, and the 
streets were in darkness because the supply of gas 
was nearly exhausted, and the cold was intense; 
never before or since have I felt such cold, and 
all the available wood, the scaffolding from the 
fronts of unfinished buildings, the wooden seats in 
the public parks, had long, long ago been taken 
for firewood — while a great many people knocked 
down the doors in their houses and chopped them 
up for fuel, so you may guess to what straits we 
were put. One could, it is true, buy little bundles 
of wood at a fabulous price, but once it was set 
alight it was plain to be seen that the man who 
wrote the proverb, “There is no smoke without 
fire,” would have changed his mind could he have 
lived through the siege of Paris. 

The dried cod was beginning to pall terribly, 
and there was not such a thing to be seen as a 
joint of beef or mutton on any butcher’s stall in 
the city. For some reason or other the Parisians 
resolutely declined to eat horse flesh, but the cats 


THE WORST 


285 


and dogs were daily disappearing, and a horrible 
dread began to overwhelm me lest dear, patient 
little Corps de Garde should be taken and killed 
for food. This dread grew into a positive night- 
mare when I overheard my father tell Madame 
Verlet one day that he doubted whether we ought 
to keep a dog, when the food he consumed (it 
was little enough at present, poor little Corps de 
Garde) was so much needed for human consump- 
tion. I made myself so ill with crying at the 
prospect of losing my constant companion that all 
agreed that his life must be spared a little longer; 
but I never think of the first three weeks of De- 
cember, 1870, without shuddering, for, in addi- 
tion to other hardships, I felt that everybody was 
in a conspiracy against Corps de Garde to take 
his poor little life on the smallest shadow of 
excuse. 

Madame Verlet bought a cookery-book and 
grew short-tempered poring over it. “Never have 
I needed the services of such a book before,” 
said she, “but to be a cook nowadays is like being 
one of those unfortunate Israelites who, I am 
told, were commanded to make bricks without 
straw. Ah ! mon dieu ! but we have indeed fallen 
upon evil days.” 

I don’t think the cookery-book helped her much, 
and my father invented a new saying which he 
repeated as a sort of grace every meal-time. 

“Silence,” he would say, “it is not everybody 
can have what he likes, but everybody can try to 
like what he has; so try to please Madame Verlet 
by eating up what she has taken such trouble to 
prepare.” 


286 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


A visit to the Hotel de Castelle was no treat 
nowadays, for my beautiful lady was so changed 
as to be almost unrecognizable. Dressed in the 
deepest black, she moved about the house like a 
ghost, pale and heavy-eyed; and more than once 
I noticed silver threads in the beautiful hair I 
had always so much admired. Valentin looked 
troubled and anxious, and often talked to me 
about the grievous change in his “petite maman.” 
But we never discussed Felix Leblond nowadays, 
although I believe he visited the Hotel de Castelle 
often enough, for Valentin was really trying to 
take my father’s advice and make the best of 
unpleasant matters, and we had both discovered 
that the first step toward ceasing to think evil 
of an enemy is to refrain from speaking unkindly 
of him. 

Very frequently during these visits of mine to 
the Hotel de Castelle I would never so much as 
get a glimpse of my beautiful lady, and when I 
did see her she never expressed a wish to see my 
father, although I thought they had made friends 
for ever at my bedside that July evening months 
ago. 

My father would ask me after the Countess, 
wistfully and anxiously, upon my return from one 
of these visits, and I had always the same thing 
to tell him if, by chance, I had seen my beautiful 
lady — namely, that she had looked just the same 
as usual, sad and tired and ill. And then he would 
spend the evening staring at a book or paper, of 
which I am sure he read very few words, and 
looking sad and tired also. 

December dragged along its dull and dreary 


THE WORST 


287 


days, and it was Mignonette alone who was con- 
sistently cheerful. “The darkest hour is that be- 
fore the dawn,” she would say. “The spring will 
come and the siege will be over, and how happy 
we shall be in the sunshine !” 

“Thee talks so because thee’s going to marry 
Monsieur Jules in the summer,” I replied, “that 
is if we are not all starved and frozen to death 
before then.” 

And Mignonette would laugh and blush and tell 
me it was a very dark cloud which had no bright 
lining, and that better days were certain to come 
presently. I am sure that the thought of her 
handsome sweetheart made the dried fish taste 
good to her, and the bread, baked of bran, 
chopped straw, starch and rice, seem delicious. 

When Mignonette talked about the dark hours 
which come before the dawn, she meant hungry 
hours, chilly, frozen hours, uncomfortable hours: 
but she could not think of the days coming when 
the miseries of cold and hunger should be as 
nothing compared with the aching of our heavy, 
grief-laden hearts. Ah! those hours were dark 
indeed, but, thank God! they were not destined 
to last long. 

It was the Monday before Christmas Day, and 
the morning began sadly for Madame Verlet, who 
went out shopping early, and made what she con- 
sidered to be a most advantageous purchase in 
the shape of a calf’s head. It looked a beautiful 
head when our landlady brought it home, and 
even my father repaired to the kitchen to have a 
look at such an unaccustomed dainty. But alas! 
its looks were by far the best part of it, for when 


288 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


placed in the saucepan it all simmered down into 
an unappetizing mess, and it transpired that this 
calf’s head was, to use a slang expresson, “faked,” 
and was almost entirely composed of a mass of 
gelatine. Never had I seen Madame Verlet in 
such a passion, and her fury did not spend itself 
in words. Seizing the saucepan she rushed out 
of the apartment back to the shop, where she 
dashed the pan and its contents upon the head of 
the dishonest shopkeeper; and seizing a pair of 
fowls in exchange for the head made off with her 
booty before the man, sticky and half-blind, could 
do anything to prevent her. 

I was engaged to visit Madame de Castelle that 
day, therefore I set off early in the care of Mi- 
gnonette, rejoicing greatly at the prospect of a 
savory supper upon my return. Corps de Garde 
did not go with us, for dogs and cats were fetch- 
ing twenty francs apiece in Paris, and I lived in 
daily dread of the little dog being stolen for food. 
He went out occasionally in the dark streets at 
night for exercise, but in general he stayed at 
home, a despondent, sad little animal. 

We did not get to the Hotel de Castelle very 
early, for we went to see a balloon ascent en route, 
such a sight being my sole recreation in those days. 
Letters were dispatched by these balloons. I 
myself had sent one to Cousin Benjamin, though 
I never heard of it reaching its destination, and 
wickercages containing carrier pigeonswere placed 
in the car, in the hope that the birds would return, 
bringing messages of hope that the provinces were 
marching to the rescue of Paris. The ascent of 
a balloon meant the raising of hope, and the 


THE WORST 


289 


Parisians would cheerfully have gone a dozen 
times a day to see such a sight. 

Mignonette and I elbowed our way through the 
crowd, watching the birds placed in the car, 
cheered the hero who had volunteered to make 
the ascent, and it was not until the balloon had 
melted away, a mere speck in the sky, that we 
turned our steps toward the Hotel de Castelle. 

*‘We have been expecting to see mademoiselle 
this long while,” exclaimed Michel, who opened 
the door to me. “We are truly thankful to see 
mademoiselle for she may have some influence 
with Monsieur le Comte, who is at present un- 
manageable.” 

“Is Monsieur Valentin ill?” I enquired in 
dismay. 

“Not, so to speak, ill, mademoiselle, but he has 
been behaving like a madman in his room upstairs. 
He is quiet at present, but he has locked the door 
and will let none of us in.” 

“Not even Mademe de Castelle?” I enquired. 

The footman looked at me strangely. “Ma- 
dame la Comtesse is in her own room, made- 
moiselle,” said he. “Her door is locked also, 
and we could not venture to disturb her.” 

“Monsieur Valentin invited me to see him, and 
it would be very rude to send me away and not 
let me in,” I observed. “Shall I knock at his 
door, Michel?” 

“If mademoiselle would be so good,” replied 
the footman. 

‘Well, thee must not come with me,” I an- 
nounced firmly. “I’ll go by myself, for I’m not a 
bit afraid of Monsieur Valentin.” 


290 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


I marched upstairs and hammered at my 
friend’s door. “Let me in. It’s me,” I an- 
nounced. “Thee invited me to come and see thee 
and here I am.” 

I didn’t have long to wait. In a very few 
seconds the key turned in the lock, and I turned 
the handle and entered the room, to find my 
friend standing, his hands in his pockets, staring 
out of the window in the midst of the most 
appalling confusion of overturned chairs and 
tables. 

“Why, whatever is the matter?” I enquired, 
breathlessly. “Won’t thee shake hands with me, 
Valentin?” 

Still no answer. I threaded my way through 
fallen furniture, and plucked my friend by his 
sleeve. “Something is the matter. I do think 
thee might tell me what it is.” 

My friend turned a white face and a pair of 
blazing eyes upon me. “That devil, Leblond, is 
going to marry maman. That’s what’s the mat- 
ter,” said he, shortly. 

“Oh! Valentin,” I whispered, “thee can’t mean 
that. She couldn’t really.” 

“Don’t be so silly. Silence. I mean exactly what 
I say,” snapped my companion. 

“But she can’t. She can^t/^ I protested. “I 
thought people married because they loved each 
other, and nobody could possibly love Felix 
Leblond.” 

“The low bounder! The beast! The devil!” 
exclaimed Valentin. “Yes, I will say exactly 
what I choose, and you can go and tell your father 
what you like. Silence. I’m not going to make the 


THE WORST 


291 


best of this, I can tell you. I’ve been making the 
best of things too long as it is.” 

“I don’t think father would wish thee to make 
the best of this,” I replied. “Oh! Valentin, it’s 
awful 1 But how dost thee know it’s true ? Per- 
haps it’s all a mistake,” I added, hopefully. 

^'‘She told me so herself,” said Valentin, in a 
choked voice. And then he gave a great gasp 
and began to sob, dreadful, hard, loud sobs that 
shook him from head to foot. 

Generally, when anybody cried, I promptly fol- 
lowed suit, but to-day I remained quite calm, for 
the situation appeared too desperate for tears. 
So I just sat down by Valentin’s side and waited 
until he stopped crying, and my heart within me 
felt as heavy as lead. 

“Don’t tell anybody you saw me like this,” he 
exclaimed presently, blowing his nose as he spoke. 
“I wouldn’t have that beast know about it for 
worlds.” 

“Oh! Valentin,” cried I, “why is she doing 
such a thing?” 

“He has got round her somehow,” replied Val- 
entin gloomily. “She says he is generous, and 
all the while she looks perfectly miserable.” 

He hesitated for a moment, and then went on 
speaking with a sort of desperate calmness. “She 
came to me this morning and said she was glad I 
seemed to be getting on better with Monsieur 
Leblond lately (that’s your father’s doing, Si- 
lence). Then she said she was going to marry 
him at the New Year, and that he was good and 
generous.” 

“He isn’t a bit, really,” I interposed. 


292 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“He is a cad — a brute!” exclaimed Valentine, 
vehemently. “And maman is frightened to death 
of him really. I asked her again and again why 
she was going to do such a thing, and she wouldn’t 
tell — she wouldn^t tell. Why, the fellow isn’t 
even a gentleman!” 

“So she wouldn’t tell, eh?” mimicked a most 
unpleasant voice behind us, and we turned round 
sharply to behold Felix Leblond. I had left the 
door ajar, and he had slipped silently into the 
room, and must have heard the greater part of 
our conversation. 

“So maman wouldn’t tell,” repeated the French- 
man, venomously. “But I can tell, my fine gen- 
tleman, and perhaps, when you hear the truth, 
you will think that this step-maman of yours might 
do worse than marry the cad — the brute — the 
beast — the devil!” 

I don’t know how Valentin looked as he lis- 
tened to this tirade, but I felt the scarlet spreading 
all over my neck and face, even to the tips of 
my ears. 

“Do you know. Monsieur le Comte de Cas- 
telle,” continued Felix Leblond, maliciously. “Do 
you know that this house of which you are so 
proud belongs to me, with every stick of furniture 
in it, just as much as if I had been fortunate or 
unfortunate enough to be born in your shoes?” 

“It’s a lie,” replied Valentin, hoarsely. 

“Oh, no, it isn’t,” sneered his tormentor. “Oh, 
no, it isn’t. This heroic guardian and uncle of 
yours, a true gentleman I suppose you would call 
him^ Monsieur le Comte, not content with gam- 
bling away his own fortune, felt himself called 


THE WORST 


293 


upon to meddle with yours also. Madame, your 
stepmother, a charming woman but absolutely de- 
ficient in business capacity, left the management of 
your business affairs entirely to Antoine de Brien- 
nais — which was an unfortunate thing for you, 
Monsieur le Comte de Castelle.” 

“My uncle, I suppose, borrowed my money in- 
tending to repay it later,” replied Valentin, with 
curious calmness. 

Felix Leblond shrugged his shoulders. “God 
knows what he meant to do. He behaved reck- 
lessly — like a madman, in short. He came to 
me at the beginning of the year and I obliged 
him with large sums of money; and always 
he gave your property as security, mon- 
sieur.” 

“Father said he was a money-lender,” I whis- 
pered to Valentin, who, however, might have been 
a statue so stiffly and rigidly did he sit upon his 
upright wooden chair, his eyes fixed stonily upon 
the Frenchman’s sinister face. 

“Father seems to have found out a good deal,” 
observed the latter, whose ears were of the sharp- 
est. “Father had better be careful what he says 
about Felix Leblond, however, or he may find 
himself in an uncommonly tight corner. You 
yourself have learnt, mademoiselle, n’est-ce pas? 
that it is better to have me for a friend than an 
enemy?” 

He stopped short for a moment, and putting 
his hand within his breast-pocket drew forth a 
paper which he slowly unfolded. 

“Do you recognize this, mademoiselle?” 

“Why,” I exclaimed, involuntarily, “that’s the 


294 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


paper our cat spilt the ink over at Bursfield, and 
that thee seemed so afraid I had read.’’ 

“I am thankful you did not read it,” replied 
Felix Leblond, “for you or your father might 
have put a spoke in my wheel as the paper wasn’t 
signed at the time. It is the deed making over 
to me this Hotel de Castelle with its furniture and 
valuables.” 

“I wish I had read it, thee wicked man,” cried I 
hotly. “It would have been what father calls 
dishonorable, but I shouldn’t have cared a bit 
about that if I could have saved Valentin.” 

Felix Leblond burst out laughing. “I had an- 
other very unpleasant surprise in the summer at 
Gorley, if you remember. Mademoiselle Silence. 
It took a precious long while to get Antoine de 
Briennais to arrange this little matter (I will say 
so much for him), and you actually turned up at 
the hotel the very day before Madame la Com- 
tesse signed the document. The sight of you 
was an unpleasant surprise for me, I assure you, 
mademoiselle, thinking, as I did, that you knew 
all.” 

“I wish thee had died then,” I cried, vehe- 
mently. “Thee looked bad enough. I’m sure, and, 
oh dear! if only thee had died.” 

“A nice Christian spirit, I must say,” sneered 
Felix Leblond. “Especially when I’m here wait- 
ing anxiously to undo the effects of Madame la 
Comtesse’s carelessness and her brother’s vil- 
lainy.” 

“Have the goodness to remember that you are 
speaking of the dead,” exclaimed Valentin. 

Felix Leblond looked a trifle surprised. “It 


THE WORST 


295 


fortunately lies in the power of Madame de Cas- 
telle to make reparation,” he continued, hastily. 
“She marries me at the New Year or before, and 
behold this paper goes behind the fire, together 
with two or three somewhat similar, and Mon- 
sieur le Comte de Castelle is once again in pos- 
session of his own house and of a very fair slice 
of his original fortune.” 

He finished this speech quite triumphantly, and 
Valentin got up, limped to the bell and rang it: “I 
wish to speak to the Countess,” he said in a voice 
without any expression in it. 

Michel appeared and he asked the footman to 
beg madame to come to him, “as,” he explained 
in the same toneless voice, “it is impossible for 
me to go to her at present.” 

We waited for several minutes and the French- 
man, who looked a trifle uneasy, offered me the 
blotted paper. 

“It is only a copy,” said he, “and mademoiselle 
may like to keep it for a little memento.” 

I took the paper, hardly knowing what I did. 
“God will punish thee yet. Just thee see if He 
doesn’t.” I exclaimed from between my clenched 
teeth. 

“I’ll take my chance of that,” replied Felix 
Leblond, laughing. 

My beautiful lady came in, pale and silent as 
usual, and her stepson rose and set a chair for her. 

This man has just been telling me the 
true reason why you intend to marry him,” said 
he. 

Madame de Castelle glanced quickly at Felix 
Leblond, and her face became paler than before. 


296 LITTLE GREY GIRL 

“You gave your word you would never tell the 
reason for our marriage.” 

“Ah well! circumstances alter cases,” retorted 
the Frenchman. “I wasn’t going to have that 
precious stepson of yours looking upon you as 
an injured innocent, and that delightful uncle of 
his as a hero — while I, forsooth, must remain a 
cad — a brute — a beast — a devil!” 

“Valentin!” exclaimed my beautiful lady, “Val- 
entin! It wasn’t to shield myself that I made 
monsieur promise to keep the reason for my 
marrying him secret. Oh ! my dear, I have been 
wickedly neglectful. I have signed documents 
without so much as glancing at their contents. 
Had I looked into matters your poor uncle could 
never have been tempted to — Oh! Valentin, what 
must you think of him? and it is all my fault.” 

“Think of him!” cried Valentin. “Think of 
Uncle Antoine! Why, petite maman, I think of 
him as he died, fighting for France, a soldier and 
a gentleman.” 

“Valentin! Valentin! Valentin!” cried my 
beautiful lady, and she actually fell upon her 
knees before her stepson and tried to kiss his 
hands. 

“And,” continued Valentin, kneeling in his 
turn, and throwing his arms around her neck, “I 
think of you, petite maman, as my very own 
mother, and the best woman in the whole world!” 


CHAPTER XXX 


A DANGEROUS ENEMY 

I can’t tell you how pleased and excited I felt 
when I heard Valentin talk like this, and jumping 
from my chair I waved my arm round my head, 
and cried: “Hip! Hip! Hurrah! Hip! Hip! 
Hurrah!” in true English fashion. 

Felix Leblond, who had looked extremely 
taken-aback on hearing my friend’s speech, eyed 
me unpleasantly. “It is to be hoped that Mon- 
sieur le Comte will not repent this day’s gen- 
erosity when he is a few years older and wiser, 
and — a pauper,” he exclaimed. 

“But, monsieur,” cried my beautiful lady, “you 
surely do not think that I am going to take- ad- 
vantage of my son’s wonderful generosity?” 

My heart sunk like lead. Valentin stumbled 
to his feet, and clutched his mother by the sleeve. 
“Maman,” said he, “you can’t mean it! You 
shan^t marry this fellow on my account.” 

“Valentin, my dear boy,” replied Madame de 
Castelle, “you have made me happier to-day than 
I have been for months. But — but I must make 
reparation.” 

“I won’t have it. You shan’t do it,” her son 
cried passionately. 

“I don’t alter my mind easily,” replied his 


298 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


mother firmly. “I have sinned and I must suffer. 
I couldn’t bear that you should be called a pauper, 
Valentin, and all through my fault.” 

And no talking or persuasion on her son’s part 
would make her think differently, and Felix Le- 
blond rubbed his hands with satisfaction, and ex- 
claimed: “A sensible woman! A very sensible 
woman ! It is easy to talk of poverty before one 
has experienced it, but let Monsieur le Comte 
grow a few years older and ” 

“You be quiet, you bully!” shouted Valentin 
furiously, before he had time to finish what he 
was going to say; and Felix Leblond shrugged his 
shoulders and laughed as though he did not care 
what Valentin said as long as he himself got what 
he wanted. 

It was a wretched walk home for me through 
the dull streets in the murky December twilight, 
and Mignonette could scarcely get a word out of 
me, though she prattled incessantly of the fowls 
preparing for supper, hoping to cheer my droop- 
ing spirits by a description of their succulent 
glories. 

When I reached the apartment I gently 
pushed aside Corps de Garde, who had run out 
to welcome me as usual, and went heavily to the 
salon where my father was sitting reading by a 
tiny stove. 

“Father,” said I, “dost thee remember me tell- 
ing thee about Felix Leblond’s worst? Well, he 
has done it now, father, and it’s very bad indeed.” 

My father laid aside his book while I told him 
about everything which had happened at the 
Hotel de Castelle, and before I had got far his 


A DANGEROUS ENEMY 


299 


face was as pale and his eyes as blazing as Val- 
entin’s had been earlier in the day. 

He heard me out in almost complete silence, 
only speaking once when I repeated what Valentin 
had said about his uncle and stepmother. 

“And to think,” he exclaimed, “to think that 
I actually dared preach to such a lad! Silence, 
my child, both thee and I may well take an ex- 
ample in Christian forbearance from Valentin de 
Castelle.” 

I finished my melancholy story and drawing the 
blotted paper out of my pocket I handed it to my 
father, who read it carefully, and then shook his 
head sadly: “It’s very bad,” said he, “about as 
bad as it could possibly be.” 

“Oh! father, can’t thee think of anything?” 

“The scoundrel’s got everything in his clutches 
safe enough,” said he, “and I don’t suppose any 
amount of money would make up for the loss of 
the Hotel de Castelle with all its art treasures, 
which I know have been in the family for 
generations.” 

I am afraid the wonderful fowl met with scant 
appreciation that evening from my father and 
myself, and the only one at all happy was little 
Corps de Garde, who fared sumptuously for once, 
in order that Madame Verlet should not break 
into open lamentation at our lack of appetite. She 
did grumble a great deal as it was, but we were 
too dejected to take much notice of her com- 
plaints, and I went to bed as early as possible be- 
cause I wished badly to have a good cry; but, 
somewhat to my surprise, I fell asleep as soon 
as my head touched the pillow, and I didn’t wake 


300 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


up until broad daylight. I am afraid, from his 
appearance next morning at breakfast, that my 
father had not been as fortunate as myself. 

We hadn’t been seated long at table when the 
door opened and Mignonette announced Valentin 
de Castelle, who looked pale and ill, with deep 
purple circles round his eyes. 

“I am sorry to disturb you, monsieur,” said he. 
“I should not have come so early, but I couldn’t 
wait. I — I want to ask your advice.” 

“I shall only be too glad and proud if I can be 
of service to thee, my dear boy,” replied my 
father, shaking hands heartily with Valentin. 

“You are very kind, monsieur,” answered my 
friend. He hesitated a moment and then contin- 
ued rather rapidly: “Silence will have told you 
what has happened. It seems, monsieur, that I 
am left practically without money, and you see I 
am so lame. I can’t be a soldier, I can’t do lots 
of things like other boys ; but I thought, monsieur, 
that perhaps you could tell me how to go into 
business — my lameness would not matter so much 
there — and in time I could work for myself and 
maman. And — and if there were a prospect of 
my earning money in future she would not mind 
so terribly my losing my fortune, and might give 
up this horrible idea of marriage.” 

He stopped short and glanced wistfully at my 
father, who, instead of answering, got up, crossed 
the room and stood staring out of the window for 
some time without speaking. 

I watched him anxiously for several minutes, 
and then I slipped from my chair and, going up to 
him, touched his arm, timidly. 


A DANGEROUS ENEMY 


301 


“Father,” said I, “why don’t thee speak? 
Thee’s not angry with Valentin?” 

“Angry !” exclaimed my father, “angry ! What 
can thee be thinking of. Silence ? Why, I’m proud 
of Valentin, as proud as if he were my own son.” 

He went to Valentin and shook hands for the 
second time. “My boy,” said he, “thee may de- 
pend upon my doing my utmost to serve thee. At 
present, with thy permission, I should like to 
return with thee to the Hotel de Castelle and have 
a few words with thy mother.” 

Valentin looked up quickly, a ray of hope light- 
ing up his pale, sad face, and I clapped my hands. 
“Father will arrange things, I know he will,” 
cried I, triumphantly. “Oh! Valentin, how glad 
I am thee thought to come to him 1” 

“Don’t thee make too sure. Silence,” exclaimed 
my father, shaking his head. “I can but do my 
best, but it doesn’t do to hope too much.” 

And when he returned from the Hotel de Cas- 
telle he was more gloomy than before. “Her 
mind is absolutely made up,” said he, speaking of 
my beautiful lady. “She is determined upon sac- 
rificing herself for the boy’s sake.” 

“Is all the money gone, father?” I enquired. 

“Practically all, except a sum of money which 
the late Comte de Castelle left her, which brings 
in a thousand pounds a year and which de Brien- 
nais could not touch. The money goes to her 
stepson if she marries again, which is an addi- 
tional reason for the sacrifice on her part.” 

“Then, after all, thee could do no good,” I 
replied, sadly. 

“I persuaded the Countess to postpone this 


302 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


marriage until the spring,” replied my father. 
“That was little enough, but at least it was some- 
thing.” 

The hours dragged woefully that miserable 
Tuesday, and at nightfall my father went out, tak- 
ing Corps de Garde with him, while indoors Ma- 
dame Verlet grumbled incessantly at our lack of 
appetite, prophesying a Christmas Day in bed 
for the two of us if we did not speedily show a 
change for the better. 

Seven o’clock struck, eight o’clock, and still my 
father did not return ; and I began to get so anx- 
ious that I caught up a thick cloak, and, unseen 
by anybody in the apartment, I stole downstairs, 
intending to keep watch by the outer door until 
he should return. 

I waited in vain for my father, but in about 
half an hour Corps de Garde returned in a state 
of terrible excitement, his tail wagging, his ears 
pricked, his whole manner showing what a lot he 
would have given at that moment for the power 
of speech. 

“Oh! Corps de Garde,” cried I, “what hast 
thee done with father?” 

The little dog barked shortly, and seizing my 
dress between his teeth began to try to pull me 
into the street outside. 

“Corps de Garde,” I whispered, “thee knows 
where father is. Take me to him now — at once.” 
And so saying I set forth at full speed. Corps de 
Garde yelping joyfully at my side. 

We raced along the Rue Chaussee St. Antoine, 
down a second street into a third, and there I saw 
a crowd collected, shouting “iSpy” at the top of 


A DANGEROUS ENEMY 


303 


its voice, while little Corps de Garde, with divers 
yelps of satisfaction, began to push through the 
people, I following him breathlessly. 

Right in the middle of the crowd were a num- 
ber of National Guards, two or three carrying 
lanterns, the others trying to keep the mob from 
my father, who stood in the midst of them, look- 
ing proud and stern, and demanding to be taken 
to the captain or lieutenant of their regiment. 

“A bas the traitor! A bas the German spy! 
A la lanterne ! A la lanterne !” howled the mob. 

My heart leapt into my mouth. “Messieurs, 
messieurs,” cried I, “my father is an Englishman, 
and he is no spy — he isn’t indeed. Oh! don’t 
hurt him — don* t hurt him!** 

“Father, father,” I continued, “tell them how 
good thee is, and how thee likes France ever so 
much better than Germany. I heard thee say so 
only yesterday.” 

“Why, Silence, how in the name of wonder did 
thee come here?” exclaimed my father. 

“Corps de Garde fetched me, and oh! mes- 
sieurs, I v/ouldn’t tell a lie, I wouldn’t indeed! 
Father isn’t a spy. Please, please won’t thee let 
him go?” 

“Why, that little rag of a dog has actually 
brought la petite to her father,” exclaimed one 
of the soldiers. 

“He loves father,” I cried, the tears streaming 
down my face. “His name is Corps de Garde, 
and he knows well enough that father is a friend 
of la belle France.” 

I had heard Madame Verlet make this state- 
ment a day or two previously, and the repetition 


304 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


served me wondrous well, because the angry 
crowd suddenly changed its tactics and began to 
laugh and cheer: “Vive la p’titel Vive le petit 
chien! Vive Corps de Garde!” And Corps de 
Garde, hearing his name shouted in all directions, 
threw himself upon his hind legs and waved his 
paws pathetically. Whereupon the crowd laughed 
louder than ever and the little dog and I, trans- 
formed into regular heroes, were marched along 
with my father to a deserted ballroom hard by, 
where was established the military post. 

The room was stuffy, smelling dreadfully of 
damp straw and tobacco-smoke; and, when the 
captain came in from a room at the back, the cor- 
poral who had arrested my father declared that 
the latter had been denounced as a spy by one 
Felix Leblond. 

“Don’t thee take any notice of him, monsieur,” 
cried I eagerly. “Felix Leblond is a wicked man 
and he hates father.” 

Several of the soldiers began to laugh again 
and my father sternly bade me be silent, after 
which he entered into a full explanation, which 
appeared to satisfy the officer. 

“It seems there has been a mistake,” said this 
latter. “I will answer for this gentleman,” he 
continued, turning to the men surrounding us. 
“France has no better friend than he.” 

Upon hearing these words everybody began to 
cheer my father, while Corps de Garde and I 
came in for a second ovation, and the air was rent 
with the cries of : “Vive la p’tite I Vive le petit 
chien !” The mob would have carried us home in 
triumph had not the captain, noticing my father’s 


A DANGEROUS ENEMY 


305 


embarrassment, invited us to remain behind until 
it should have dispersed; and I gave a description 
of how Corps de Garde had rushed to our house 
for help. 

“You may be thankful to this little animal all 
the days of your life, monsieur,’* exclaimed the 
officer, patting Corps de Garde warmly as he 
spoke. “If the mob had become unruly it would 
have strung you up without a moment’s hesitation 
upon the nearest lamp-post, and not a soul would 
have been prosecuted for murder. 

“And what about the British Government?” 
suggested my father. 

The officer shrugged his shoulders. “By the 
end of the siege your Government would have con- 
sidered it too late to move in the matter. No, no, 
monsieur, you may consider yourself to have had 
a lucky escape.” 

“Thee will not want to kill Corps de Garde 
now, will thee, father?” I enquired wistfully after 
we had returned to our apartment, and Madame 
Verlet and Mignonette had listened, with hands 
and eyes raised toward heaven, to the history of 
our evening’s adventures. 

“Want to kill my best friend! That would 
show a fine spirit of gratitude, wouldn’t it?” re- 
plied my father, stooping to pat the little dog — 
who was, however, too busily engaged upon the 
contents of a plate containing double rations to 
respond to affectionate demonstrations. “No, no, 
little one ; we’ll try to save Corps de Garde at any 
cost. I’ll promise thee that. Silence.” 

I felt truly thankful to hear him say this, but 
the thought of the terrible fate which might have 


3o6 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


been his prevented me from indulging in any 
extravagant expressions of joy. 

“Felix Leblond is a dreadful man,” I observed 
after a long pause. 

“He is a very dangerous enemy,” replied my 
father, slowly. “How dangerous I never knew 
until to-night. Silence.” 


CHAPTER XXXI 


CHRISTMAS EVE 

There was nothing at all in the appearance of 
Paris to remind us that we were upon the thres- 
hold of Christmas. The markets showed no dis- 
play of seasonable fare, there were no toys for 
sale in the shop windows; indeed, had there been 
any such the shops concerned would in all prob- 
ability have been mobbed, for it was well known 
that the greater number of toy^ hailed from Ger- 
many. The weather was colder than ever, and 
we shivered in our ill-warmed and badly lighted 
apartment. 

“It isn’t a bit Christmassy,” I observed dis- 
consolately to Madame Verlet as I sat in her 
kitchen on Christmas Eve, Corps de Garde’s head 
tucked under my arm, and watched our landlady’s 
preparations for evolving a festive meal out of 
most unpromising materials. 

“Christmas indeed, mademoiselle,” she ex- 
claimed, grating furiously at some hard, dry 
cheese as she spoke. The season of peace and 
good-will ! It is terrible indeed to think that na- 
tions should be at war together at such a time. 
Ah ! could we French but inflict a crushing defeat 
upon those accursed Prussians !” 

“It was a good thing for the Empress that she 
got away when she did,” I replied. 


3o8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“At all events, the English shopkeepers do not 
ask her forty francs for a rabbit,’’ retorted Ma- 
dame Verlet bitterly, speaking just as though the 
Empress went to market every morning with a 
basket upon her arm. 

“Ecoutez, mademoiselle,” she continued pres- 
ently, eyeing the material before her with intense 
disfavor, “it is absolutely necessary that I should 
have an egg for this souffle. It will cost five 
francs. But what of that ! Christmas comes but 
once a year.” 

“How will thee get the egg, madame?” I en- 
quired. “Mignonette has gone out to visit the 
parents of Monsieur Jules, and the shops will be 
closed before she returns.” 

“You are right,” replied our landlady, adding, 
after a moment’s pause, “Is monsieur your papa 
in the salon?” 

“He is out at present,” I replied. 

“Quel dommage!” exclaimed Madame Verlet, 
gazing wistfully at the cheese as she spoke. 
“Mademoiselle would be afraid to be left alone 
while I went to buy the egg?” she suggested after 
a moment’s hesitation. 

“I shouldn’t mind at all,” I replied promptly. 
“Thee wouldn’t be long away, madame?” 

“Not more than half an hour,” she assured me. 
“It is some distance to George Gambon‘s shop, 
but the eggs there are reliable, which is more than 
can be said for those sold in the shops about the 
Rue Chaussee St. Antoine.” 

“Corps de Garde and I would like to come with 
thee,” I remarked regretfully, “but I promised 
father to stay indoors to-day because of my cold.” 


CHRISTMAS EVE 


309 


“Mademoiselle must stay comfortably indoors 
until my return,” announced Madame Verlet, “the 
air outside is of a piercing coldness.” 

She put on her cloak, counted some money into 
her purse, and set out, fortified by my repeated 
assurances that I would take every care of the 
apartment during her absence. As soon as the 
door had closed behind her I got out a puzzle, 
emptied the various pieces upon the table and 
began to fit them together; but I had scarcely time 
to set to work in earnest before there was a knock 
at the front door of our apartment and Corps de 
Garde began to bark. 

“Be quiet. Corps de Garde,” said I, “be a good, 
polite little dog,” and so saying I threw open 
the door and prepared to make our landlady’s 
excuses. 

“Madame Verlet is not at home at present,” I 
began, primly, peering into the dimness of the 
landing as I spoke, for, like all the rest of Paris, 
we had grown very economical of light lately. 

“I want nothing with Madame Verlet,” re- 
plied a well-known voice, “it is with monsieur 
your papa that I desire to have a few words, ma- 
demoiselle.” 

• And, so saying, Felix Leblond closed the door 
of the apartment behind him, pushed me uncere- 
moniously on one side, and entered our little 
salon just as though he were monarch of all he 
surveyed. 

“And now perhaps, since Madame What’s-her- 
name is out, you will have the goodness to tell 
your papa that Felix Leblond is waiting to have 
a little explanation with him.” 


310 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


“Thee can’t see father,” I stammered, feeling 
most horribly frightened; “he isn’t in, either.” 

“Well, I shall wait for him,” replied the 
Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders. “I’m not 
going from here without giving him a lesson not 
to meddle with my affairs in future.” 

He finished this speech with a horribly wicked 
word, while I stood still paralyzed with terror 
and feeling like a poor little mouse caught in a 
trap. 

“I should like to give you a lesson at the same 
time,” he continued, smiling. “You’re an infernal 
little devil, you know. Mademoiselle Silence.” 

He seized my ear as he spoke, and I gave a 
scream for he hurt me dreadfully; but the next 
moment he was screaming on his own account and 
swearing, too, for little Corps de Garde had him 
fast by the leg, and, to judge by the noise Felix 
Leblond made, the little dog’s teeth were sharper 
than his own finger-nails. 

He stooped down, wrenched himself free, and 
somehow — I don’t know how — caught Corps de 
Garde by the collar. 

“I’ll choke the life out of you, you brute I” he 
muttered. 

“Thee shan’t hurt Corps de Garde,” I cried in 
a frenzy of rage and terror. 

“We’ll see about that!” snarled Felix Leblond. 

The next moment I had thrown myself upon 
him, and was biting, scratching, fighting, using 
every limb and every muscle to try to save my 
little friend from those cruel fingers. 

Holding Corps de Garde firmly with one hand, 
he beat me off savagely with the other, never 


CHRISTMAS EVE 


311 

speaking a word until I suddenly jerked a paper 
out of his breast-pocket, which fell upon the floor 
to be instantly seized between the dog’s teeth. 

“Good heavens !” cried he in sudden consterna- 
tion. “Give that paper up, you brute! Give it 
up, I tell you!” 

He shook me off with an effort which sent me 
flying across the room, and, stooping, dealt Corps 
de Garde a heavy blow with his clenched fist. 

And then a strange thing happened, for he sud- 
denly let go of the dog, who started worrying the 
paper as though it had been a rat, and he fell 
against the side of the table with his face the 
awful green color I had seen it at Gorley in the 
summer, months ago. 

“Don’t let the dog get at me,” he gasped as 
Corps de Garde, having torn the paper to shreds^ 
advanced toward his enemy, growling ominously. 

I seized the little dog by the collar and crouched 
on the floor by his side, watching the stricken man 
and wondering what was going to happen. 

“He ought to have water,” thought I, “water 
and brandy. But I daren’t — I daren’t go near 
him. He’s too cruel.” 

Felix Leblond moaned, and it was just as 
though I saw written above him in letters of fire : 
“// thine enemy hunger, feed him. If he thirst, 
give him drink F* 

“Stay here. Corps de Garde,” I whispered. 
Then, turning to the sideboard, I poured out some 
water with trembling hands and carried it across 
to the sick man. 

“Try to drink this, monsieur.” 

He shook his head, but he motioned feebly 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


312 

toward his waistcoat pocket, and I pulled out a 
little bottle and drew the cork. There was a 
funny smell all over the room, and I put the bottle 
to Felix Leblond’s nose, but it didn’t seem to do 
any good. 

“I’m done for,” he muttered, and his head fell 
back, his mouth opened, and Corps de Garde 
began to howl dismally. 

“Holy Virgin, preserve us!” cried Madame 
Verlet, entering the salon at that moment, and 
with a cry I fell in a heap at her feet, and didn’t 
know any more for a very long while. 

When I came to myself my beautiful lady’s 
arms were round me, and she was crying, and my 
father was bending over me, and his eyes also 
were full of tears, and the doctor was there, too, 
with his hand on my wrist. 

“There, there, my dear,” exclaimed this latter. 
“You’re better now, aren’t you? Take a drink 
of this, and you’ll soon be quite well.” 

“Corps de Garde,” I whispered, “is he all 
right?” 

“Corps de Garde? The dog? I should think 
he is all right,” replied the doctor, and my father 
went to the door and opened it. The next mo- 
ment I heard Valentin’s voice. “Corps de Garde, 
old man, come along ! She’s better 1” and a small, 
white heap rushed into the room, scrambled on 
to my bed and began joyfully licking my face. 

“I was afraid he had hurt him,” I whispered. 
“Is he gone?” 

“He will never trouble any of us again, my 
dear little girl,” replied my father. 


CHRISTMAS EVE 


313 


“I tried to give him some water, though I was 
dreadfully afraid,” I whispered. 

“I know thee did, darling,” replied my father, 
gently. 

“A regular little heroine, that’s what you are. 
Mademoiselle Silence,” exclaimed the doctor. 

And my beautiful lady held me close in her 
arms, murmuring : “My own little grey girl I My 
dear little grey girl !” 

“We’ll all be happy together now, won’t we?” 
I replied, kissing her. “And if I’m a heroine, 
Corps de Garde is a hero.” 

And so saying I fell sound asleep. 

Shall I ever forget that Christmas day follow- 
ing! It is true I had to lie in bed, but my father 
was with me, and my beautiful lady and Valentin, 
and last, but certainly not least. Corps de Garde. 
And Mignonette would pop in frequently to know 
how I did, and to ask if there were anything she 
could do for mademoiselle, while her handsome 
fiance came to my room to present his respectful 
compliments ; but, finding no words, stood stiffly at 
the salute, smiling broadly, and leaving Mignon- 
ette to do all the talking. As for Madame Verlet, 
if she came once to visit me she came twenty 
times, and always she implored my pardon for 
leaving me alone in the apartment, calling herself 
by many hard and unpleasant names, until my 
father remarked drily that it was almost possible 
to overdo repentance. 

The doctor came to see me, too, and he petted 
me and made much of me until I began to feel 
that to be ill was quite a luxury, and that I was 


314 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


the happiest little girl in the world. And oh I but 
it was splendid to see my beautiful lady and Val- 
entin with the black shadow of care away from 
their faces, and looking cheerful and happy. For 
a wonderful thing had happened, and we had dis- 
covered that the paper which Corps de Garde had 
torn in shreds upon Christmas Eve was the actual 
document in which Madame de Castelle had all 
unwittingly signed away the Hotel de Castelle at 
the instigation of Monsieur de Briennais. 

And further surprises were in store for us, be- 
cause a few days later a will was discovered in 
which Felix Leblond, apparently possessing no liv- 
ing relation, left his entire fortune to Madame 
de Castelle in anticipation of his marriage to her. 
My beautiful lady refused to accept a penny of 
the money for herself, but her son’s fortune was 
returned to him safe and sound, and what re- 
mained of Felix Leblond’s ill-gotten gains was 
divided among several poor people whom the 
money-lender had ruined by cruel extortion. 

So we were all happy together, and if my beau- 
tiful lady sometimes wept when she remembered 
her brother, poor Monsieur de Briennais, why, 
Valentin was always at hand to wipe away the 
tears and to remind her how the dead man had 
died, fighting for his country and Emperor. 


CHAPTER XXXII 


PETITE MAMAN 

Gorley again in the springtime; and surely 
never have the laburnums been so golden, the 
pink May blossom so rosy, and the lilac bushes 
so purple and fragrant. The sun shines all day 
long, and the cuckoo sings “Cuckoo, cuckoo,” 
over in the woods by Streating Hill. Showers 
there are occasionally, but they fall considerately 
when we are all abed, and are just enough. Cousin 
Naomi says, to make the garden at the White 
Cottage look better than it has ever been before. 

Snow bells, clematis, syringa, white lilac, the 
tall trees down by the back water, and at the 
bottom of the garden the silver river rippling 
through green meadows, and away past Hart’s 
Lock beech woods, where I first spoke with my 
beautiful lady. Can it be two years ago? 

It is two years ago. The siege is long since 
over and Paris is herself again, but I am far too 
busy to-day to think of the siege ; for I am dress- 
ing, dressing in a white muslin frock and a pale 
blue sash, while my grey gown lies forsaken upon 
a chair beside the bed. My hair is curly now; 
what would Sarah say could she see it? But 
Sarah is far away at Bursfield. Some kind friend 
left her a legacy, and now she and Rebecca keep 


3i6 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


house together, and the curate lodges with them. 
He is a very young man, and we are given to un- 
derstand that our late housemaid keeps him in ex- 
cellent order, that, in fact, he is just a little bit 
afraid of her. Sarah and I love each other 
dearly, however, and We still write frequently, 
telling each other all the news. 

I have stopped dressing for a moment to think 
about Bursfield days, but I must hurry, for I hear 
Cousin Naomi in the garden, and she is threaten- 
ing Corps de Garde with unheard-of pains and 
penalties should he so much as glance the way of 
that bed of white tulips. I peep through the win- 
dow, and, lo and behold ! Corps de Garde, washed 
and brushed and adorned with blue ribbon, is 
actually trying to lick Cousin Naomi’s hand, set- 
ting at nought as it were all her threats of 
punishment. 

“What a dog! What a dog!” exclaims Cousin 
Naomi. 

“Nay, nay, let there be no talk of punishment 
to-day,” exclaims a well-known voice, and dear 
Cousin Benjamin appears, while Corps de Garde 
in ecstasy throws himself upon the old man, lick- 
ing and slobbering and pawing until Cousin Naomi 
is driven into open remonstrance. 

“Benjamin, Benjamin, make him go down! 
Look at your trousers ! New to-day, and covered 
with marks of his paws already!” 

“A great deal of love is worth a little dirt,” 
replies Cousin Benjamin, philosophically, and in- 
dulgently watches Corps de Garde, who is at 
present tearing round the garden at full speed, 
fortunately, however, avoiding the white tulips. 


PETITE MAMAN 


317 


I give a final twist to my sash and run down- 
stairs at full speed. Everybody seems to be ready 
but me, and it will never, never do to be late 
to-day of all days. 

“Heigho!” cries Cousin Benjamin, catching 
sight of me and hastily putting on his spectacles. 
“Heigho! what have we here? Here’s another 
flower for thy garden, Naomi.” 

‘‘Very nice indeed,” observes Cousin Naomi. 
“Just the dress for a summer day. Silence. It is 
to be hoped you will not grow out of this one as 
quickly as you did out of your last grey.” 

“I suppose thee’s much too fine to kiss thy old 
cousin,” suggested Cousin Benjamin, slyly. 

“I shall never be too fine to kiss thee. Cousin 
Benjamin,” I cry, throwing my arms round his 
neck and hugging him. “And thee needn’t talk, 
thee’s smart enough thyself, and Cousin Naomi, 
too.” 

For, although it is only Wednesday, my cousins 
are resplendent in not only Sunday clothes but 
new clothes! Such a silk gown as Cousin Naomi 
says will have to last her all the days of her life, 
and Cousin Benjamin has new check trousers, and 
a frock coat which looks beautiful when I 
have hastily taken the price ticket away from the 
collar. 

“I think I hear the sound of wheels,” exclaimed 
Cousin Naomi, interrupting the mutual admira- 
tion society. 

“Surely not yet,” replied Cousin Benjamin. 
“The clocks are, most unfortunately, all stopped; 
but it can’t be four o’clock yet.” 

“It is four o’clock,” I cry, triumphantly; “hark 


3i8 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


to the Church clock ! And thee’s quite right about 
the wheels, Cousin Naomi.” 

Away we hurry to the garden gate, Corps de 
Garde winning the race by several lengths, and 
we are just in time to see a carriage turn the cor- 
ner of the lane, and in the carriage is seated my 
father with a lady by his side — my beautiful lady 
who used to be Madame de Castelle, until three 
weeks ago. 

There she sits, all dressed in pale grey silk; but 
I have barely time to glance at her, for my father 
has jumped out of the carriage like any schoolboy, 
and he has taken me in his arms and is hugging 
me, until suddenly he puts me away from him and 
says that he must have made a mistake — this 
great girl can’t possibly be his little Silence. He 
can’t believe it — oh, no! There must certainly 
be some great mistake. ‘T can’t have grown so 
much in four weeks, surely,” I protest. But I 
haven’t time to say more, because I am in my 
beautiful lady’s arms this time, and she is kissing 
me and calling me her own little grey girl, though 
really I am not a grey girl at all to-day, but I 
haven’t time to correct her, for my arms are tight 
round her neck and I am whispering in her ear, 
‘Tetite mamanl How glad I am to see thee, 
petite maman I” 

Jan. 31st, 1911. 6 p. m. 

Did I really hear someone say I have been hav- 
ing forty winks? Surely not; and yet as I open 
my eyes I see my father standing by me and my 
husband, and they are looking at me, and smiling 
at each other. 


PETITE MAMAN 


319 


“Valentin,” I say, “I have been thinking”; and 
he answers, laughing outright, “You generally do 
think just about this time, don’t you, Silence?” 

Then my father begins to laugh also, most 
provoking I call it, and I repeat, severely: “I 
have been thinking — about old times.” 

“Well, well,” says Valentin, “here is something 
just arrived which will help you to remember 
them,” and he hands me a photograph of Mignon- 
ette and her latest grandson. 

“A very fine child,” decides my father after 
careful inspection of the photograph. “It is to 
be hoped that the youngster will take after his 
grandfather rather than his grandmother, as far 
as the power of speech is concerned.” 

“Father!” I exclaim, reproachfully; but my 
father has fled, only pausing at the door to tell me 
that he is just going to see if petite maman has 
been “thinking,” too. 

“And what are you thinking of now. Silence?” 
asks Valentin, drawing a chair up to the fire beside 
me and taking my hand in his. 

“I’m thinking how happy we are,” I reply. 
“Oh, Valentin, we are happy, aren’t we?” 

“We are, indeed,” answers Valentin, softly. 
“I thank the good God always for the day which 
gave me my Grey Girl.” 

And what of dear Cousin Benjamin and 
Naomi? 

Why, this my story is all about forty years ago, 
and they were not young then, either of them. 
For the last twelve years there has been a grave 
in Gorley Churchyard, and in the spring-time I 
love to go and sit beside it and think without sad- 


320 


LITTLE GREY GIRL 


ness of the dear cousins who lie together in the 
place they loved so well, and I plant their favorite 
flowers upon the green turf, and prune the white 
rosebush that threatens to cover the simple white 
headstone which tells that : 

**Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall 
see GodJ* 


THE END 















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